Red
And all afternoon the
great dirt rose
in the east and rolled in,
first a stain, then a plume,
and all afternoon the lake grew darker:
Carp flashed and disappeared,
reeds shifted with a mass
of unseen creatures. And all afternoon
the city held its breath, knowing
that sunset would be a gamble, sensing
the great dirt would
be a blanket.
Now a sliver of blue
disappears in the west, the great dirt
now the only sky, and in the air
thunder’s first cardiac rumble, and in the lake
carp and dark creatures creep further from sight.
All the lake’s birds
scatter like crockery
and fat drops tumble at massive velocities.
Thunder grows imminent
and everything is made
of edges.
***
In a small white
house,
in the hills, outside a city
that has forgotten
them,
two lovers watch the great dirt
plunge against
windows,
their bodies in sync
with the explosion of
each drop,
the way things unfold,
disperse, reform.
Their bodies are opals,
taut as bow strings,
and the rain
could be anything, but mostly,
an elixir.
***
And the great dirt empties over city
and hills, and the wind whinnies
through the cracks of
windows,
the stiff curl of gum leaves
and the spaces formed by any two bodies;
steps become waterfalls
and shafts of light
unfurl against the earth.
***
Tongue on the soles of feet, on calves,
on thighs, through dark hair
that holds salt born of the sweat of a day
that started off blue.
Tongue quickens,
attuned as rain drops to windows,
to streams, to each other, at the moment
of breasts, compels nipples to rise,
to strain. Teeth at the top of ears,
breath like wind through windows,
gum leaves, through
the valleys made
by any two people.
***
Then sky shifts
and rain winds down
from frenzy to a blanket:
And the lake is a million fingers
of city light,
and fish are goosebumps
or nothing at all, and
the earth
has its own cologne.
But in a white house,
in the hills,
all that’s left is breathing,
small voices,
and rain drying red
on everything.