When my father calls, I tell him
the damage, how the bricks—
so many of them now
in the street—lie prostrate,

faithful to the earth again.
How Ida darkened the sky,
throwing light at our feet
like doubloons

until she swept the city
beneath her eye—trapping us
like the tree limb
that fell through the window

into the kitchen. He pines,
I know he’ll take this
as a sign. Now in L.A.,
he says “Look at God!”

like a man spared. I want
to say, look—you are gray,
the world is drowning,
& I am afraid. Can’t you see

these ruins? Your mistakes?
Instead I say, “I love you”
& notice the dawn’s first light
breaks, rising in such innocence.

This is the real madness
with a hurricane, the next day
the sun comes out like a parent,
like nothing ever happened.