Summer’s last thunderstorm
Nineteenth of September, nearly supper.
First the trees start whispering questions.
Leaves swerve to ground like practice seasons.
Is nothing too green for grief, the trees ask.
The answer scrapes the top of the sky.
Bulldozer uprooting forever for the new estates.
Is it over? Almost. It’s almost over.
Then rain, soft, like em-dashes
Between invisible words, unspoken charters.
Whatever they are building up there
Has been redacted already in the unseen
Document of the future, what’s left
Of our uncomposed lives. Word on the tip
Of the tongue in a mouth that closes.
Like clouds closing on a patch of blue.
The thunder has forgotten its voice
Is summer’s, and throttles like a biker
Down a darkening road.
We stay with the day just another wave
sliding into the palm of sand so inclined
to hold what is offered even so briefly
as if time made a difference when
the difference has left us these lives
on the thin film between sky and earth
I’m good at earthquakes
you said and you at thunder
Spring Thunder, Spring Lightning
Hungry ghosts bang their empty bellies
Who ever said the kettle cares not for the meal?
Trees lean to the earth and touch it like Buddha
asking the grass safe in its smallness to be a witness
That what looks like sorrow is sacred; and on this open
parking lot the rain slides under cars like a sea of snakes
and toward this tree under which I stand for shelter
where the yellow teeth of monkeys flash behind the leaves