Hurricane Irene Uncurled, climbed A fire escape In Philadelphia, Settled beside A bowl of Summer apples And fell asleep. Brainless herself And unkind, Irene dreams In her victims' Unsettled minds.
All experience
Bound to one
Instant, an
Enchanted flash
Of fire and shape.
Is it motion or
Expanding stillness?
Beyond, fog appears
In plumes from
Ploughed ground.
Silence grows.
What time
Is a rose?
Survival or novelty Of striking beauty Or both cross lenses To a scent --a ghost Laid or hummingbird Made of blurs And heartbeats. Am I only in the Way of what it eats Or learning to dance Where nothing was Before one does?