SHARKPACK Poetry Review

The Nothing

At thirty minutes before it comes, the black
sky goes indigo, leafless trees like cracks,

fractals, shadowy veins—and oh! now it’s dark
blue and down low to the horizon streaks
of heavy cloud are paler, almost gray;

steady relentless, the blank above turns
to a wall of seething clouds I can see
writhing in wind roaring fast from the east.

The cold fireplace breathes and a whistle
whispers down through the narrow stove pipe here
at the very top of the mountain; no

windbreak cups our cold cabin in its hand,
no safety from the terrible striding.

 
 
—Noah Stetzer