She knows the winds in the circles of all that’s around her.
The funnel is as twisted as the screaming man on the wall
                 hanging in the serenity of white space,
                          crosses and orbs flying up like
                             zephyr elms.  Her face
                              breaching its anvil.
                           Her little brick house
                             pirouetting behind,
                                until her town,
                               she is totally lost,
                                until it’s her
                       and the circle is her
                 and the flood, the storm.
            She breathes its screech over
      everything it rushes and destroys.
Can we live in the force of one wind for the whole of a life?
Does the sun gaze down and hunger for the grounded light?