of this desert wind at night
bending the monster palms
they can’t help it
letting themselves get torn apart like that 
there’s a hundred miles
per hour of nothing
always headed straight for us
the way my thinking never stops
and my brothers will always be dead 
blowing me down
huffing and puffing from inside
their stone heaven
their peek holes to the stars and sky
my darkened door
glowing like a bullet
radiant as the frond commotion
as the flailing green racket
kept at bay by wood
and glass I’m hiding behind
the truth that even trees
will harm themselves
goaded by gods and gusts
those historical hands in everything
sharp as the cathedral bells
ringing me off to sleep
a distant nowhere dust
where my brothers have just slipped away 
to do their witchery
in wee-hour kitchens
so quiet we forgot to listen
so busy with their potions and triggers 
their bottles and plans
but never quieter than the cold cocktail 
of their blue faces after
and still
a sister cannot stop it
and My hand is alive all over America
this wind a mean choir
a rude anthem
shredding the palms outside 
my scored heart
this paper night
the loudest air
that will have it no other way