The wind ripped down my roof tonight.
It yelled and screamed until
the windows exploded
and I cried.
I cried like I was shaken by the wind,
like god withdrew;
the devil killed my sons.
And though I am not Job, I am not
left alone to tell you
anything except . . .
I am not going to make it.
The bricks falling through the chimney hole
make that clear in the clouds of ash
they raise.
I am
not going
to make it.
The only sanctuary now
is to walk into the open
darkness,
far from splintered roofs
and falling bricks.
If I am chaff,
I bid you all
goodbye.
