Weather Prophet

All the wings on all the planes point toward the earth's core.

Bernoulli quite upset—debunked and topsy turvy.
Lift goes to the ground. Down goes up and up, downward.

About the edges of the house, falling jumbo jets punch holes into the lawn:
blistered stars and circles encircle us.

All the cars, their aluminum polarities reversed, draw irresistibly
one unto another, meeting and making jagged, shattering love.

Each tornado turns counterclockwise and
in the air the constant smashing of cymbals.

All the world's waters are rising, having lost their way, having forgotten
how to find the river and the ocean.

Last week: ankle deep.
Tomorrow we will swim from the waist down.

More peculiar still, nobody seems to have the sniffles.

The National Weather Bureau predicts the worst.
We supervise from the safety of our garret windows.
Down below the dogs trot backwards.
Not a sniffle in sight.
Everybody's sick but me,
says everybody.