ISSUE: Winter 1997
Wind is omen;
omen does things to the trees,
their dream of rescue fading.
Omen loves that moment, that No,
when the whole life leans
and the cruelty turns definite:
her arms fall away,
saying simply, Get me.
And omen, unknown attractor,
keeps pulling all the strings,
finding the scene exotic,
finding Diana, the injured part,
finding in the shape and feel
of so much hope, in the rubbing
and pulling, genesis, finding
in the lurid, alien hue, somebody good,
who must have been good—
what happened here was deafening,
the dangling of the changeling,
her brow in a bleed of light.
