storm

What is it in the warm dark
that the wind must flag me down?
Dripping at the branchless mark
skittish limbs drag on wet ground
all because your voice was hot
my ears ring with shadow sounds,
meshing, they refuse to rot,
the water’s too clear to drown;
‘Til now I have never seen
the sky like grit or as brown
for plastered leaves could not preen
the sky apart from its noun.

Advertisement