Poem to Japan's Tohoku Earthquake

Whims by the name of cars

pass whirlingly by across interstates

like tornadoes wishing to make names

for themselves. The stinky-weird 

smell of debris and rubble of homes 

that were once places of habitation for 

folks. Whirlwinds uproots the temporary

and the flimsy—less of one who easily 

succumbs to nature's whistles.

Whole homes drifting by undercurrents

of water—torrents destroy and move

loved ones from the grounded cemeteries—

How many in Japan had underwater funerals?

Pockets in the fire-night waiting here.

Earthly heathen elements cement humans

into stone. And a lone gull passes 

by in the clouds by the blue 

atmosphere.

Kamikaze fighter pilots

are unaware that the word 

is "divine wind" in Japanese.

What's left after a devastating 

tsunami is the claim:

divine justice for human sin.

Concrete and subtle realities of 

destruction that weave themselves

into narrative. Ash, ash, he says.

And are we to return.