Kathryn Muus
Weather Patterns

I.

There presented, a narrow and wide gate.

The Mirror Gate lay between—

with grayed engravings and rusted edges

where frames had cracked under extreme weather changes.

—It hadn’t given itself to being a standard option.

II.

Turn, friend, your eyes.

He’s not planning on dying “anytime soon”

Blocking harmful blue light from the atmosphere

and saliva forms in the corners of his mouth.

III.

Without water, is the body dust?

Which part of you do I breathe in thick air—

your brain, your heart, blood?

IV.

Round here you call to say hello in silence

and watch with a swollen eye

colder now—wonder if you are wearing shoes

or if they knew you wouldn’t be needing them.

—cold friend, turn your eyes.

**this poem previously appeared in Copper Nickel