I sit and sing, daft diener admiring
the perfect anatomy of this storm.
No bass bay of its thunder can be too loud,
no glissando of lightning too bright,
too piercing, no brooding cloud too black.
It snarls and rains fiercer
the louder I laugh,
a madwoman drinking rain
from her wineglass,
wearing rain for a burqa.
The salt sweet falling
that tastes of you
I drink deepest;
life on the tongue, seablue
in the mouth, gold in the glass,
my storm that wraps me
in wet winding thrash
after dust dead drought.
Behind the clouds’ cowl there is
no mask, only the godpaint
that sweats off, runs a blue scribed
tatoo over white thighs,
inks seeking lips
as fluttering cottonwoods ripple
and quake in the tease of
the sensate air’s caress,
as I, as I am played
trembling under the harpist's hand
that barely brushes, thrumming
the breaths of the cooling sky.
Misted skin is parchment for
the scripture of the storm.
Flesh renders meaning where rain
has blurred wet words.
The void never seen is filled
past holding, charged sudden
bolts shot from sky
ground out in bone,
a silver plastique
ignition of white
rainfire, earth made whole
soaked within and without at last,
lifting her dulcet summer perfume
as the grass gives up its dead
in a honey bath of runoff
that choruses the soul
of each blade and shriveled leaf
requited in wet turning, while far
star fish swimming in clouds
leap and splash.
In the morning, the iron air is cleansed
with the autumn smell of grassfires
lit by the sky’s rocket match.
Image: Lightning over Oklahoma City, photo taken from Chopper 4, Kfor.com
August 6, 2011 Copyright © www.kfor.com. All rights reserved.