This is an improv off of "Tornadoes" by Thylias Moss.
Truth is, I envy tornadoes
and their perfection. The way they twist
and form into together. Turn and spin
in the gray of what they’ve picked up:
a house, a chicken coop,
people inside a vehicle- its protection.
You’re something to be forgotten after
leaving a wake of things I cannot clean
up after. Tornadoes don’t worry about cleaning.
They just disappear.
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