With Eyes the Color of Nutmeg and Safety

Here there is a metaphor solution and an actual
storm.  I could have pried out another

scenario but didn’t.  To be alive in a

    gale,

which needs to be
    dusted.  To

prepare the chicken
dinner, mildly, as previously, as if

in any other kitchen.  You chop vegetables.

The chicken is tangential
    not because of direction or actual
amount of heat—

you seasoning the meat—

but because of fierce pulses, hair scooped

all over a face, a hat blown
off, just one moment.

    And one wooden
slat pried away from the hatch. 
I can see the olive

trees on the shore who castigate the wind.
We try with our anchor. 
We hold ourselves to marks.

These aren’t some kitchen stairs here.
Night in the ruin-boat, which

heels.  To-and-fro.
To- and-fro.