O Mercy Me
       

The dirt storms regular now,
as if the downdraft's haul of loose ground
is it's own harvest, the wind a blind scythe.
Twilight rides the weather, black mass
filth, a bulwark full force against the risk
you'll try to see al:iead. You don't.
Cars wreck, shop glass breaks.
Stand in the road while the grains spray
your skin scattershot; your raw eyes.
The day-dark dust does what it wants.
So does the sun. Tomorrow I'll see
the fields fenced by old telephone poles.
I'll see Golgotha, repeating.

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Copyright © 2015 Rebecca Gayle Howell All rights reserved
from Southern Indiana Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission