Fred Aiken Writing

the intimate inchoate form, formless, nascent names
ripping, violent jerks, through the hurricane’s grip,
while bouncing off a balancing pole across two buildings,
risk falling from the sky as the mother, a mother,
mother nature takes the city by the hand
and leads it to the precipice, right to the edge,
then push,
a quiet trip down the gravity well that ends in not such an unexpected way,
but we’ll say was, anyway,
a way