Cry, Map!

We missed the exit.
Whatdja' call it?
You know, like a bridge--not.

Cross the sky? Not a chance, not
with clouds blowing out towers
bursting out sight, busting billows of vision
teaming down in green-gray parades

into plum, and arriving orange-peach,
pastel against the thunderstorm,
a blasting reach--not--a screech
like a spigot of a spectrum,
patching on the south siding,
riding, bay, gap--gotcha!

Oh, that arc,
a sea-green car
striking across some burnt sea,
crying to make the other ply.
Absolutely, positively landing
this spinning crate, some tornado
travaling up the exit ramp
and skipping, scamping,
like a salt thing
loving the shore.

 

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