The Maynard
Spring 2020

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The Gee Whiz Element of Tropical Storms and Symphonies

During the opening of the hurricane,
the water drains, a rapid decrescendo,

from the shoreline. As silent as sand,
we gather dinner, our nets replete with

those flounder neaped before the coming
movement, caught on a shard of harbor

as if on the ego of a king. We explore
with a microburst of confidence gusting

as hard as the earth’s last heated, swollen
breaths. But this lazy adagio will not hold,

written to return like a horn section da capo,
da capo. If we’re lucky, we will escape before

the pour accelerato, before thunder so tympanic
we’re held captive and captivated,

spectator and spectered, carried away on
a diaphragmatic surge to a horizon that we can’t

see and are able, despite such fine-tuned
percussion, to deny how this ending could be so.