Anne Elvey
weighs on my frame, as voices measure work
and a saw circles through a post to level things.
I keep the windows closed. The Bureau says
the northwest wind will turn to the south. Stumps
as the air that balloons and buckles the fabric
of a world. There are no cicadas, only a fury
Forget the past, they say, you cannot level your
house; the wind is your heart’s hammer.
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