kris t kahn


Something is changing or shifting its course.
we catch hints of its scent -- hibiscus or
sulfur or Auschwitz -- on the breeze as
from the kitchen we watch
the citadel's weathervane turn and

this Something is not a concoction of ours,
it is nothing we can bury
in the vegetable garden among
the turnips and hope that
spring will keep restrained,
it is not anything divine
or which can be discussed easily
in anthropomorphic terms:
we all know
a storm is a storm is
much more than
all gods fucking
weeping though

where shall we run for cover, in the shed or in the copse?
from where will the pieces of jagged hill be flung and
from whose veined fists? how much longer
until the citadel loses its head for then

we will be staring
nostrils flared
with what stands behind
the wind, that which we
cannot name, its

hands full of earth
and our purpled premature turnips.

Date of Birth: July 17, 1979
Location: New Jersey
Publications: The 2River View, Naked Poetry, The Cortland Review, Stirring, etc.
Chapbook: The Gospel According to Thomas
Editor of: Sometimes City

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