Windblown earth relents; jalousies
loose long held applause. Tempered clouds
break—now rain.

Exeunt Heat.

Steel vane forgets to stir, or warn
of lead curtains closing on Paria, moving east,
drawn across the plain, across to the ranges’
naked breasts.

God, we would even take the potential flood.
Don’t threaten. Just come.

Come.

The sky gasps like a candle flame
about to drown in its own blood,
congealing thick at its base when thunder
shakes the heart.

Books that cover books shake
off their words, letter by letter.
The air drinks deeply, gulping
between breaths.

The dry, gilded grass bristles;
and the broken yard, where is our private
drought, takes to a darkened umber,
then glitters.

The passing Indian girl, loosed hair
charged as tension lines
across her face, goes in.

Dogs bark. Far Palmiste fades.

The coast evaporates
like a lazy afternoon’s dream.