Tornadoes never make good shelters –
but he doesn't know that.
So he tries to find
refuge inside of me,
he tries to build a home
out of my bitten bones
with a porch swing
made of whatever
left-over love
someone forgot to take back.
He wants me to be a safe place
to hide away
from a troublesome summer,
but I am not made of light,
and I am not made of beginnings –
everything about me
is a never-ending ending.
Tornadoes never make good shelters –
and he will soon know that.
