Postscript from Mississippi

When you asked if it rained bees or poison you were asking the wrong question. Again. You still didn’t understand the difference between hurricanes and flooding. Thus between gods and humans. Between your slum- lordy digs and the shacks I pass that cling to old boards and huddle around each family. The yards marking the care of home. Everywhere something is falling on someone and I watch like an autumn tourist tripping through the Berkshires. I reach to catch a leaf. I try to straighten a Pisa-like sapling. The wind wraps around us both like a question mark and leaves me standing, the sole witness on this end. I’m telling you about a place of silence. You want it all to be a metaphor. I’m watching a front porch crumble. Still, someone sits there.