Fear of tornadoes and hurricanes

Preparedness: a myth. Imagine it:
two city rivers overflow, converge.
Graffiti-covered handball walls afloat—
new arks—above the subway cars submerged
like sunken ships. Two weeks ago a row
of stubborn Brooklyn brownstones doffed their lids
to twisters, skylighting the high lit glow
of street lamps bending at the waist from winds.
Undone beneath the raised hand of the bay
my house abuts, one year the water touched
our knees before we fled. But flood’s not much
compared with these cyclonic days. No way
to gauge you: wrath or pleasure, unfixed track
away or toward. Untoward, you leave no wake.