by Christopher Raley
As though submerged, I saw. And it floated
above me, a black cross unsure of its
Later, uban light through dirty windows,
it roars over highway like an omen,
then is silent as quickly as it came.
What do we say? Budgets, numbers, figures
as though office walls are framed by digits,
and faith rapps sheetrock listening for the stud.
Nevermind my childhood just rattled
the glass and shook the desk. My childhood:
winter after winter of drought. High clouds
wisp on blue seedling dreams of leaving.
Afternoon: by the time I heard the roar
it was already climbing back to gone.
Office walls and digits cling to firm ground,
but I yearn in the rising