i shake jars until they grow tornados

a wheeling of all availible matter.
invisible disaster necklace.
i'm not sure what i will do
when the trees are ripped from the dirt
& they dance around in the sky 
like dead gods. i often struggle with
who to pray to. for awhile, like all poets,
i tried to pray to the moon
but he turned over like a coin.
i filled my pockets with his absence
& i walked all over town on full moons
in the hopes he would see my teething glinting. 
lately, i just light candles & hope
someone powerful is watching. often, 
i wonder if anyone is taking notes on us.
we kissed only three times last night (i'm sorry)
i was scared of blurring away.
outside, a new type of weather
is considering what to do with a dead tree.
will it tear limb from limb or
set the structure a flame? 
the new kind of weather is really just
a team of men with all their tools.
there are two screw drivers
in the kitchen. the door knob keeps 
wriggling itself loose. each time i tighten it
if believe even more that there are
goblins tampering with the house.
dear candle, i hope you burn thoroughly 
all the way down into the carpet.
what will we do with all these windows?
i remember, of course, the extreme weather drills
from elementary school. my head between my knees.
all our small bodies lined up against the yellow wall.
we were no match for a school shooter.
he walked through all our marrow
kissing the end of a gun & whispering 
a song i've heard but can't remember.
i am a lucky person, or at least 
i tell myself this over & over.
a nightmare is waiting just under the lid.
contained. we eat a pigeon 
we found splayed out in the grass
eyes full of turning. we might one day
install a revolving door in the front of our house
so that we can pretend to be 
circling the earth before entering the house.
all things come back around
but here we are counting are fingers.
we are greedy or maybe we are 
conserving our resources. 
i joke i'm going to let the tornado out 
in the kitchen. i won't do it 
but i do like to imagine the pans 
smacking and clanging together in the air.
perhaps the catastrophe
is what we wanted. does a prayer count
if it happens out of reflex?
in the tiny crevasses of desire?
the candle is always listening.