Gale Force Hymn
with a gnash of teeth and harumphs
from heaven, a black mood smitingthe clueless blue. Clouds snag on the hills
and drag a downpour like torn lace.
Trees writhe like Pentecostals.
But it’s too late to coax God to be good,
too late to grovel with tears or hosannas:
nothing swerves the will of a whirlwind.
It lifts up the loose and unhinged, bangs
them down the street, hurls them at the helpless
glass, till the panicked air
sickens and sirens wail for steeples
and strip joints and trailers strung out
along the soft shoulders of secondary roads–
and nothing’s blesséd but the cockroach,
the mole in the ground, the immortal
roots of the mean buckthorn.