Turbulence

After the rain, the wind died in front of him. It
flowed down

the river, upright. The turbulence showed the
grass its seat,

and even the book seemed greener
than the shoes on his feet.

He grabbed the sun on either side,
directed the clouds to turn left,

but the clouds landed, grey and deflated,
in a yellow plastic pail. He clenched

his teeth, looked for a way out. His feet,
pressed to the ground, would shortly

come-to.

From "The Trunk of a Green Malibu" a chapbook of poetry by Valerie Poulin.