Wish

Driving home, darkening rain
pushing on the hills like night;
the sky spits out a splot of black
hooks that could be birds or snags
in the stuff of things. A heave of wings
and they shake themselves into a bow
an arrow, funnel, delta, chalice,
a wishbone pulled between the rocks
and clouds. It breaks itself, spins out
into a chaos of holes: heart
that can’t quite trust in its wish.