what is the storm running from
this time

what is the storm
running from this time
on those
thin lightning-strike legs
that kick at the skyline?
our houses turn into bowling pins--
knuckles of balanced dominoes--
each footfall is another
step closer to our chimney--
the artery-- a telephone cord we
pulled from god's throat
to pray into--
we talk like radio show hosts--
god doesn't ask questions or pray 
back to us--
i have never been scared of 
thunder & lightning because
she is more scared of us
than we are of her--
spends her life time speeding-up
in an attempt to escape
her own destruction-- watching
the ground evacuate under her feet--
she wonders what it is about
her that makes everything shutter--
sometimes i feel like her--
a storm with unforgiving feet--
it's not her angry electricity--
it's the frantic sprint
& catastrophic qualities of
my own escape-- my arms 
spread the length of the road--
i connect my house
to the quilt patch of soy bean field 
tucked 
behind the water tower--
i fill the space under my
bed with my organs before i 
go running in the grey-- wrap 
them around bed posts-- try to
stuff the pillow--
i always need more space--
i'm making space under my skin 
for worries & metal spoons
-- there's no more
room for stomachs or
veins-- i take 
them out on the bed room floor
while my wrists snap like 
distant thunder-- here i come again--
thin legs kicking at the earth--
strike down the crooked rooftops--
shout into the chimney--
here i am as frightened 
as the storm running from herself--
looking for my places to hide my
veins where they won't just
become blue static in the hair
of the willow trees along
the edge of the farmer's market--
look at my hands full of
earth & husks--
my bed post
was also my chimney-- all four of
them--
don't be scared of me please--
i fill so much of a room
it's hard to keep me company--
i know my legs are loud--
i know it's hard to listen--
count the seconds after the flash
& that's how close i am--