A distant desert sirocco wind
reaches me as a breath barely felt
yet something in me stirs.
What seems at rest is movement unrecorded.
My heart pumps like a hummingbird
hard at work to stay still, while
kidneys filter, pancreas secretes,
skin sloughs, organs conspire, some wither
yet stay juiced in this grand commotion.
Maps, too, look settled with colors fixed
yet a mistral has shifted tectonic plates
under the halls in Washington.
There is a stench from the wreckage
and carnage trembles the body politic,
fertilizes a seismic rage
from the debris of bogus vows
and hollow slogans that do not buy eggs,
cure measles, or open factories.
Sores fester and simmer
under the dome and the oval.
The quake may not yet register on the Richter
but tremors can be felt in my bones.
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