forecast 

i should have checked 
the weather channel

my 7-day heart written 
by the poets 

with their forecasts &
their warm fronts

i wouldn't have guessed  
myself to be 68 degrees &
sunny--

drift of old clouds
who never rained--

what kind of winter am i
going to be next year?

soft meandering of jazz
whispers through my windows

to remind me that 
the meteorologists 
are doing their work

my body a site of 
investigation--

they map me--

precipitation-green across
my limbs-- 

i'm humid & full of storm--

the hurricane they haven't named--

my skin a surface to be read

i'm thinking of the times
i believed in rain dances--
standing in the gravel
driveway with my hands
lifted to a grey sky--

or the times i kneeled
& prayed for my body to
snow & cancel the world out
for a bit--

i wished i  had a snow
machine like the ones 
at bear creek-- one i could
point & wrap us all in quiet--

i forget about the jazz sometimes
until a trumpet laughs her
way back into my ears

& i recall that somewhere the 
weather channel is observing me--

taking measurements--

their wind vanes roasting 
on the heads of tall buildings--

gauging my distant breathing--

oh tell me-- next year 
how hot will i be on
the first of september? 

will my wind speed resist
the turn of the planet?

will you be there with me?

with your soul echoing a 60% chance
of cloudburst 
your sky partly sunny--

burning away it's own skirts
with a face full of summer--

you are so unpredictable--

you must give the 
weathermen quite
the time--

i imagine we're all at least
a little unforeseen--

in seven days i will
be 48 degrees with 
the haze of graphite heaven
murky over my head--

a kind of halo--

whose god is it writing my body
into temperature?

tell me how hot you
used to be when you
let august run wild with
your skin 

when january was an ending--

when a scarf tethered you
down to earth so
as to not be carried
away on a gust of childish blizzard

turn on the weather
channel-- 

you'll see me there--

asleep in a mist of 
saxophone-mouthed kisses 
& fall of piano keys

i'll listen for you--

your eyes peering down
through the cloud cover 

at me in my forecasted body--

what kind of weather do
you see in me anyway?

don't tell me--

i want to be surprised--

but for you i like
to think you will be
one of those 70 degree days--

the ones where you feel like
you should have no where
to be--

where you feel like
one more step 

& you'll evaporate--

float grey & tired 
above