Major Jackson reads

Forecast

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Whichever way our shoulders move, there’s joy.
Make a soft hollow noise. We’ve our own hourglass
and no one else to blame. I thought of our lives, 
caressing ruins through half-opened windows.
I hear our prayers rising. I sing to you, now,
like scented candles, your ferocious wolf.
I no longer want this weather on my breath
or the many recognizable texts of our celestial holes.
A ceiling fan turns above. The arson is in us.
This is the year I’ll contemplate the fire-fangled sky.