When Bitches Swirl in the Sea

There is sobbing, screaming on rooftops low and easy
under sudden surges saltier than tears,
steaming hearts sore in lashing winds
sounding like freight train whistles
waking the wincing whippoorwills.

All is progression and pressure measured
in millibars and knots,
cycles of calamities and catastrophes,
too high tides pounding wide
some gulf, an open mouth not yawning.

Through it all some core remains
solid and ever-rolling, boiling, this mass of iron,
yet above, the sun still blues the sky
each morning after a bitch’s swirl,
and we heave the sweet, often scathing, air--stuck between.