Transparent Things, God-Sized Hole

All transparent things need
               thunder shirts. The little
ghost hanging from an eave,
               on Underwood
Street, a piece of
netting stretched onto
               a metal frame. The Boston
terriers and Chihuahuas patiently
               wait out storms
with their eyes bulging
               in their special
wraparound shirts. My
               family used to
laugh at me
               sleeping under
two down quilts, wearing a wool
               hat in summer,
when I said
               I was afraid
otherwise I would
               fly up to the ceiling.

Once on a sidewalk
               beside Erie Street
around the corner
               from Underwood
where the pointless
tracks run to a dead end
               on the other side,
I found a black
               and silver rosary,
with shining
               onyx beads, like
the ones
               that you see
               from the belts of
nuns in their habits or priests
               in their chasubles.
I kept it
               carefully until either
I lost it or it got buried
               in the bottom of a purse
abandoned under
               my bed or in the
closet. Clutter keeps
               me bound to
this earth.
                      I told Patti last night
               that the God-sized
hole in me was
               so big and vacant,
voracious and spacious,
               it was like I was
running some kind
               of desperate toddler’s
shape-sorter game, trying to find
               something that fit
to plug into it. I’d stuff anything
               in there, regardless
of whether the shape
               coincided with
the opening. It was
               like I could look
at the sky and attract
               space junk, broken
satellites, spent rocket
micrometeoroids, to
               plug the

               The wind is its own
kind of chaos,
               sometimes like a sheet
of itself tangled
               or flowing
on a celestial
               clothesline. It needs
a weighted blanket.
               Little red flags
on the maple
               at the corner of
Underwood and Erie
               near the switching yard.
Slow-moving locomotives
               that might be driven by
nobody. Flags
               hold the tree down,
mark it, make it know
               it’s real.
Flapping on the flaming maple
               or falling.