& the world will keep turning

            his words prestidigitations
how a pink rose disappears into thin ice
where what was, never is

            my words approaching a truth:

            you are no mountain, sir, your streams do not flow
            & your snow sticks only in patches

I looked outside
& the world condensed
                                    to a door
as weeds tumbled across my feet
            I winged through—

a genie
            a wind
                        a thunderstorm looking to land

as if the world were nothing—
            galaxies of gases & tunnels of thought

                        memory a chemical afterthought

I threw down my gloves—
                                                he’d conceded no stars

& in my longing & yearning
            wished I were made of straw
            or mud, but truly only stone

            could withstand this hurricane.