Sky

The sky—slate gray—it conquers even

seeing rusted objects for golden God

in East Walnut Hills. Mourning winds,

they whip the windows wet-beaded with glass

droplets as brick Victorians bloom against

the blur of rain not shot from Cupid’s bow.

            bow: rape’s apologizer

The wind whimpers, whistles, and woes,

O, woah, woah, wooo, oo,

as if a lonely graying troubadour

stuck like a fly in the screen. Aperture

between the flooded neighborhood and

underworld open, so the gusts—they gore

my bright black writing room in a high-rise whose

pipe breath requires repair from the hard labor

of rising above the dun mud-glutted Ohio,

a river unapologetically bodacious,

above the Northern Kentucky toy houses

and yellow arch of the bridge, Big Mac,

which sticks out, the rind of a yellow

watermelon—on a sunny day, holy.