Compass, show me which way to part cloudy. The next time marrow stirs sleeping I’ll blame it on the rain, maybe the shower if I feel hollow wrapped in cold towel. The dampness under my eyelids can’t be anything natural, though it’s been sunny enough for condensation, cold enough for backroad spit stones barnside. If I started a losing streak how lonely would my drives become, how quiet, fix with half-empty glass of water left beside the mailbox still frosted and bent. Bend these clouds away with strato-turbulence and churning, turning east-bound till some coast is stormy-ridden and sweet-wet.
C.J. Opperthauser currently lives and teaches in Cincinnati. His poems have recently appeared in dislocate and Midwestern Gothic. He blogs at http://thicketsandthings.tumblr.com.