Poetry: The Weather —Greg Purcell

THE WEATHER

 When the world is a cloudless sky
And the blue dreams a verb
On the cosmos
For weekslong
I am abject
I am abject
Under that yellow heart

 When the world burrs a spit
From her lips
And the grey hides a pers-
o-nality from herself
Oh I am happy
I am hap- hap- happy
In the rain

 When the air it a-sucks out
All the heat sucks out
The air from the
Little world
And the dry bird
Flocks and
Depends on
Me
Peep-a peep-a then
I am a filth

But when the air’s a glom
On doom she never comes
She never comes
And the grey green brown
Little frogs sink a song
To Earth
And then
So happy
So hap- hap- happy I am

Glom a doom
Yellow heart the birds are
Abject
A guy he’s
So happy

 A world
A thing
So ab-
ject , so
Hap- hap-
Happy
A
long

Greg Purcell’s book, The Fundaments, is out now from Poor Claudia. His chapbooks include The New Music (The Agriculture Reader) and More Fresh Air (Industrial Lunch, in collaboration with David Pritchard). He is a founding member of the Connecticut River Valley Poet’s Theater.

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