Pray for the storm to come

Summer lingers…

a sentimental lover bearing down

when it’s too hot for that.

No relief will find me

in the swamp of his embrace.

I pray for the storm to come,

to soak up

summer’s steam,

loaded with mistakes.

I run in circles, whirling my arms

like an airplane waiting to land,

dropping incendiary sweat

as I try to stir the air,

a rich broth, but I’ve no appetite, only


and anticipation

for the storm.

He could come in the night–

sudden and deliberate, cool and gone–

to let me dream calmly, finally,

in the rumbling thunder after,

I would lie back on the sand, more than willing–

unbelted, unbuttoned, burned, untied–

waving to ourselves in vain.

I watch his blue fingers stroking the horizon,

ready for whatever he brings.

19 Sept, 9 Oct 1997


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