know what I know that
sunlight never
falls in neat lines even when
it does
after the calamity of
storms when becoming
a series of endpoints reaching
down the mountain
the mountain that
knows what I
know that discomfort is a
concept evolved
by hope
in a church whose corners
have been planed
smooth
the church that knows
what I know
how perfection sells itself
on unlikely corners
everywhere and
nowhere on any map
we might scribble while reeling from bad
wine
when we lean back against the
overpass railing, collect raindrops
on our fingers and name children
never to be born. engage in
arguments with green lightning.
your obsession with electricity.
your love of atmospheric
molecules hellbent in disarray.
that connect us as diesels blow
by below in a rush of petroleum
wind. we load our pockets with
static flame. fall weightless
into forty years from now and
a remembrance of thunder’s
haunted soliloquy.
fly again into the realm
of crows
bird-brained
and blank-lusted taken in by their
glassy eyes and oily wings washed
by damnation thunder becoming
(willingly)
a brief wisp
of the hellish weather
created by
sullen angels
