And the plains rose jagged teeth in the wailings
of a tropic-born storm, its clever creatures quick
to shift position from knoll to hole, lumber crevices
in V-shapes split wide and symmetrical.

My shadow ran through debris, fled from my feet
to find running circles near brush fires is fatal;
storm blurred gorgeous Denver mountains,
racked peaks, and vicious with its taste,

took me high to arrange me in mosaic form
in all of the other places she had damaged.

Featured Poetry