The First Final Storm

February 19, 2017

With the apartment nearly emptied,

The closets stripped,

The tv, the dresser now only cobwebs and dust;

Just a hand-me-down couch,

Midsummer rain, and a bottle to fight back the day,

 

   I become. Flooded in night.

 

In a sweatpool I awake

To the air conditioner switched off, 

a gray pause,

 

my inworld like the peak of an inhale,

  The sun still stuck behind the mountain 

In the early pre-light, 

 

For once in this stifle comes the pearlquiet, the silk-patter of rain, 

Cars, finding home, birds

Just beginning to blink and gap, silent breath

in the bluegray dawn, 

 

Then a flash of light and a crack,

Immense and perfect,

The exhale of God, of Satan, of fate, flight, 

The room raGes, shakes with light, 

Windows knock in their loose wood frames,

this fucking thunder! how long do we still here?

 

And the roar echoes on, on for 

For twenty, thirty seconds,

 Is a growl, a croak, remnants of a firestorm, the smolder of millennia, 

 -- google the story of Prometheus, 

 before it burns out,

The conditioner switches back on; 

 

Electric hum: fill the room, lightwave the universe,

Rumble inside now not unalike the out--

I transfix, am a stillness.

 

Returning to sleep 

I awake with bright morning

  dew in the air, rising heat and

That shout of light

That perfect crack

still echoing in my mind as I carry my life 

To Southern California, where the thunder

is nothing like this.

 

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