The day before tornadoes buffed
the mirror-sided Bank One building
down to girders, we people-watched
in Fort Worth. Everything was dumb:
the modern sculpture torqued on purpose,
a nature morte on Sundance Square.

Sundance Square, I said. You said,
Don’t forget The Caravan
of Dreams, and left a rubber arrow
with your foot on the side-
walk in front of the two nose ringed.

Crow they were, skimming
the incessant waves, concentric,
cellular, so thick they flew
into themselves,
knocking their own shadows
out of the mirrors, ignoring bits
of mango salsa, and the fallen
pesto quesadilla on the sand-
colored brick street.

A mouse
he was, serving the finest grind
of true eye-talian expresso.

A frog it was, the satchel-mouthed
distributor’s monkey peeling off
the crippled kiosk, The Caravan
of Beans, planting a seed of hope.
I planted a kiss on the seed
before you buried it there, daring

Darius. My brother, when you find
the chairs lodged in the dome
of the cranial Caravan
roof, or see the monitors
dangling from their cords out
the Federal Building, when your girl’s
father tells you walls shook
hopelessly and one man knew
he would die in Fort Worth,
leave the crows some bread inside
the church ruins. Five arrows you’ll find.
We are all weathermen.

Chad Davidson's poems have appeared or are forthcoming in DoubleTake, Notre Dame Review, The Paris Review, Pequod, Seneca Review, and others. His first collection of poems, Consolation Miracle, will be published in fall 2003 with Southern Illinois University Press. More in CONTRIBUTORS