The very first time you were ever a storm
grooms dyed their hair the hectic candy colors
of old Wurlitzer jukeboxes, and either just before
or just after (no one can actually remember),
junkies and G-men assembled for secret peace talks
and gods in somber celebration showered only us
and sailors on nightmare seas with what was said
to be ash from the shirtwaist factory fire,
while the fire itself wailed like some vast silence
being twisted, roughly twisted by such big hands.