Gusts Like Wine

BY AMIR AZIZ

That night the spring wind came late, and cold whipping my door, driving clouds lit red by traffic, making a carcass of our city.

Gusts, like wine, glugging stubby park lawns, sloshing leggy tulips, crashing into barren trees whose branches shriek like bone—

I will tell you when I’ve had my fill. The sun won’t rise for quite some time— and even that’s uncertain.