Concrete Rain.

Concrete Rain

Soporific—I heave.
I cleave to you.

Pillow-punched and humid
from the dying storm, trembling,
retreating like a love-sick soldier
from the fire, unseasonably hot
and wet.

I am sated
by what I know now,
under the thunderclaps.
I quiver—the ground shakes.

We receive an ovation.
You mean everything.

If I could tell you (Yell)
after the lightning says
what it says, guttural,
bright-throated and screaming,
would it mean reincarnation or
the death of something?

I slap the air, swatting
some invisible pest
or a formless word.

Would you swallow every syllable?

Tiny, wet hands clap—clap
for our show.

Their fingers numbed
and bleeding and drenched
in August wetness.

They, too, are weary for
rest and not sleep.

The pillow is in your face,
soft-striped in the morning
bright, creeping—writhing
with wet brow.

You heave—I move
away, unseasonably cold,
and tumble out of time.
The sheet serpents
up my leg.

No one sees blood
in the wild dark, no
time to stain before dawn.
.
The air, dusk-grey smoke
and white wine, pregnant
with moisture and unborn rain.

Heavy with some otherworldly
noise we mistake for silence,
rising deeply, erratically—
like thunder being born.

I just want to tell you…

My mouth softens, my tongue
rigid and peaked.

My lips are stiff, glued to the rig,
words just leaden snow or
concrete rain.

You catch them on the tip
of your reaching tongue,
tasting them—rendering them
pure and whole again.

Morning breaks,
my leg still twisted,
your brow still wet.

We are back in time.