Storm Warning

The trick,

I’ve heard,

when wind

lowers

its shoulder

with a thin

brown eye,

and you know

by the way

lakes tremble

in their

mud cups

that you

haven’t seen

anything

yet—

the trick

is to be flat,

to become

the edges

of a

plane

so

thin

you

slip

between

charging molecules

of atmospheric rage,

a ghost

in the current

like a mirror

seeing

all

storing

nothing.