Howler

Sometimes the only wind I can feel
is a howler churning inside me.

I lean to the left, then the right,
fall flattened to the floor.

It seems impossible
that nothing in this room

has been moved
by such a storm but it’s true.

It’s as still as a ghost
in here. Meanwhile I’m shaking, 

shattering within.  Every nerve
waving like grass, 

blood white-capped and frothing, 
so loud I can’t think,

can’t pull a single word out of my lungs,
yet you sit there and mouth the usual,

that one must suffer for art,
that this will be material

for me. All I can do
is breathe and try to lie low enough 

to let the twister pass,
and you’re saying this. Believe me

when I say I don’t want the poem
that’s in here with me, friend;

I don’t want this poem
at all.