Westerlies

Everything is greener this morning,
the sun hounding the edge of the earth,
rolling and coughing in apocalyptic dogma
as I stand in the shadows waiting for the light
to purify.

The night was long and heavy, like an animal
kicking out the inventory of my chest, but this
morning promises new birds and their new songs.

I’m sorry for the fourteen thousand variations
of self and the ghost given unto you. I wish to beg
forgiveness, though it may never come, and even
if it does, it will be so sudden and quiet, like
soft-spoken westerlies, I’ll never know it arrived,
never know it’s gone, like prayers and their
destinations.

Stay thankful for gods of rebirth and
the interstate’s shoulders sprinkled with
Indian paintbrush and laurels of blue wild indigo.