Still Life with Tornado

When the ghost is on you,
you don’t even see it happen:
a fathomless meta-name
broken into chaptered glades.

There’s a slurry on the pond
doing one thing and
thinking about another.
The whole stumped hill
waiting for its sovereign.

Even if Jesus does
love Winchester,
Satan still loves Milton
and even in the roughest seas
friendship favors Quakers.

Through the trees I saw you
burn my love house
down, a residue of color
carried into leaf traffic
like a thought becoming
its own money.