Pale Horse

After Hurricane Helene

I heard the pale horse pound his hooves

on the roof while the sky bled

like a belly-down deer, storm-wild water

licking fear, storm-plow hands

ripping trees and powerlines.

The soul-hungry red-dawn rider

sang apocalypso, song of the end,

pipe organ roar in wind-throat.

The goat-footed stampede slit the earth,

made it bleed.

I was a bird in the eye of the hurricane—

caught with my flock behind its teeth,

nothing above, naught beneath,

holding up my four walls with prayer

like fragile wings, blood on my door

so this dark angel might pass over me.