Enormous Hazel Clouds
Twelve seconds from Kill-Devil Hill
there is a crash-down brooming loose dirt
into proms of dust. Leakage and foil
melded by the high gloss of science,
the disorientation takes to the air,
weaving, turning, losing face
to the smooth white. New rush,
the horizontal surface of disquieting
motions morphing corners. Now,
what star to eat? What ledge to jump from?
remain to be figured. Groundswells, never touched,
for the metal shine of wax and polish
whipping through the breeze
the trust and leap, the flaws
and, jealous, scabbed bodies pushing
a rare perfection right off the cliff.
Heath Brougher lives in York, PA and has a book of two poems forthcoming with Green Panda Press.