Other Storms

Somehow, the image
of the burning block
stays with you.

The flames simultaneously
reaching for clouds
and running amok
on the ground.

It stays with you
like a toothache or a song.
Dust on porcelain figurines.

Time throws
its puss-colored shawl
over your face
so you can’t tell
where you’re going.

You creep on anyway,
it’s all you’re equipped for.

Blizzards pour
from distant regions
like bees protecting their hive.

Other storms wait
on the sidelines –

they’ve got itches
only you can scratch,
and they intend to see
that you do.

-r. miller


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