A gale drags across the rooftops,
peeling shingle, breaking tree limbs,
as if the ether is taking back all it has previously given.
You had been told that this weather was coming,
had been given many clues:
His brow: the dark clouds at the furthest edge of the horizon,
his voice: a partial vacuum, a fist filling an empty sock.
When his head finally turned away for the last time,
you followed him to the car, blocking his path
until he drove through the front yard to get away –
leaving twin paths through mud
as if made by a progression of beasts
to slaughter or salvation.
Something had been too-long kept,
the only way out was through a sardonic cascade of storm.
For him, the highways stand glistening with rain and branches,
for you, a hammering of lungs with water,
an annihilation in ebony and weather.