Typhoni

This is the deepest part of the world.

Bird don’t fly here,

but there is the sound of wings.

The smell, just a struggle in the earth

underneath the musty floorboards.

Monsters hatch fully-grown from their eggs.

Snaky legs indicate chaos.

I carry sad omens,

slobber down the psychic’s legs

to her feet pointed backwards.

I roll off the back of a skull strapped on top

of a fox who shape-shifts into the irresistible.

A Christian, Oklahoma-shaped and melancholic,

caught at the entrance of a ditch

as the best breath of me tornadoes into the next county.