Thunder tastes like

the sound of violets,

breathing in the crystalline rain.

(If I could shake this ancient tree,

would lightning-blossoms fall on me;

would it bring me any closer to

understanding gravity?)


Blue-silk, sun-drenched;

Mired in grass, calling out

In warm-still weeks, until the storm breaks.

(When I painted a sapphire dust on my skin,

did thunder bear witness to my eyes' bright sin;

did it know in its gypsy-sky; lavender

soul was breathing clouds within?)


Darkness sounds like

the texture of indigo;

Why do I dissipate

like this, in the moment of rain...

after weeks of sun-sick

groping after vapor,

fruitless boiling

of the silver in my soul;

poison leaves a petroleum sheen

on the tarmac beyond.