When I hear
thunder striking
outside my window
I know what is about to come.
So I pack my
feathers
and reminisce of
villages and catastrophes.
I gather up my words
and
fire them
strong,
strong,
fast,
faster.
When I smell the
grassy air
I know what is about to come.
I gather up
hate
and dream of voice whispering.
I gather
pain, unsought,
and pour them into sunsets,
to mark my days
and
burn my natures.
Because if I hear one more thunder,
I'll lose it.
I'll become sigh and meaningless glances.
I'll burn up all of my
dictionaries,
and give away all of my words, for
I know what is about to come.
When it rains
All I have is unrestlessness
and the white streaks of falling water
to accompany me
through and through
trying to blow your ashes
off of my mind