What has so far transpired:

contrails of cirrus
like kitestrings are flung
cross a June evening,

laundry lines of the summer’s
sirensong, a rumbling
in the stomach of my soul.

it nears storm season,
longing anticipated before
lightning even

touches down.
the wind builds
castles of our discontent, dust

scattered like glitter &
unicorns ‘cross the page where
we grub out with the back

end of a no.2 lead the lust
which would hang
us up to dry. do i

already drip? i cannot
remember how
the next verse goes.

my black marks
are wound like
kitestrings ’round

but a single wrist, tight,
untangled (and i think),
still my own.

a break in the lightning

fucking inadequate
the soles of my shoes
in the summer on a pavement too
hot to run barefoot,
the temperature control
in my soul out of sorts
with the weather, incongruous thunder
in flattened veins,
fattened sluggish blood
refusing to pound
for me the chaff of nightmares,
a dirty sunrise
uncovered each morning like
the scratchy wool tapestry they wrapped
me in to get rid of the fever, saying
i had to sweat it out.

the secrets kept by heavy waters

taking deep ocean-steps
in the direction of you,
i breathe quietly
through the pores of my tongue
so as not to startle you
with my boldness;
hush of moss-draped oaks
and their crushing silences
keep vigil against me;
limbs are heavy and sodden
with my best treacherous intentions,
skin drinking the wet
from the air, drowning in the coming thunder;
for you i would dare
even the lightning.