It was supposed to be the day I expressed affection but we had fought the night /before. Coming home from church. About catching a break of some sort. I was /driving. We were turning onto our street. Yelling. He may have been crying. Outside / wind. From El Paso, it began, made its way down I-20, gathering tumbleweeds into /its arms, scooping children’s toys into its teeth. It didn’t mind what, I suppose, but / particularly dust, until it was itself a cloud. Willing to become a body that wasn’t / anything in particular, just bits of everything and everyone. The world was a / windstorm. Into the next day, driving, again. It kept rolling, into the bones of / everyone it brought with it cold. The brown of the dress. It’s body, wind, the whirl / turned. Like the Greeks, we screamed into each other’s throats until the world / became the fight. But how beautiful, the roar of it to fall in love with everything like / freeing the clothesline of the just-departed.