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
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,
of the silver in my soul;
poison leaves a petroleum sheen
on the tarmac beyond.