Fighting
Danielle Hanson          
​
First the sound of the neighbors fighting outside
only the word
fuck, raised voices,
tense and melting postures. Then cream
twisting in my coffee, a smaller storm.
The storm yesterday was wonderful, not like this,
not like vines growing feet each day,
covering the world until cut down--
the dirt spiraling from the road—not like a bird--
it is air turned to ash.