she falls across the sky
arms waving, fingers stretched
to rake the clouds
on the verge,
around the moon
the thunder stirs, somewhere, south
in the valleys,
shuddering grasping, flailing
the lights flashing in the west
halo the ridgeline
she breaks her spine
on the peaks,
shatters and breaks, since
she will not be shorn,
clatters in shards, down
the ravine,
shrieking and clawing, down
in the eastern valley,
catching streetlights in her hands
and tearing them, clawing
the earth,
barreling through the
powerlines, till they
snap, then fall, limp and
still waving
over the freeway, throws
the cars against the slope,
howling,
and calling, under she's
thundering, and the valley
cracks along its spine
---
so she catches the windows
shattering,
in her hair, glittering
streaming across the wash
over the far halls
the cement cracks, in the
shape of her mouth,
and the earth cracks
in the shape of her teeth,
into the shadow
of her bones,
shaped by the unseen
unnoticed,
the silence and the
weight,
choking,
the pressure
grinding down,
meant to still, to bind
to break in the shape
of a hand, of a
bent palm, of an
armature,
of the ground, a pile of
skin, and a stain,
spreading into the roots
to feed the soil,
what cannot break
goes underground,
and further,
until it wears the rocks,
wears the roots,
or unweaves
them,
cracks the ground,
slowly,
in the shadow of
the sky, when the sky
breaks,
and crackles, and
comes rushing over the
water,
falling over the slopes,
thundering,
then the asphalt will break
and go flying, with the cars
tumbling,
like gravel in the broken
waters, screaming and howling
until they are finally streaming
towards the sky
