Anthony DiMichele
tempest
I have no thoughts of home
when cupped in a lotus of the presence
of life
it runs through you into the ground full of clouds
and rain
through the walls of your eyes into the sea of streets
fully occupying minutes shaving hours for meals
and yards that fill an enormous loneliness
that has multiple contradictory definitions
death to the justice of the just which is just
for the unjust
brimming with the unlovely sight
becoming monstrous
famous on earth
among strangers who find in their brutal hearts
moorings for their grizzley dreams
while the tempest blows over a tea cup
of barely audible whispers
*
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