Post-storm clouds moved faster

than deer at a switchboard;

the chatter is mostly navigation-

like housewives in molasses.

The navy hasn’t reported many UFOs

because their desert is already blue.

Skies don’t have dialects.

She looks up with less and less joy.

When he sits quietly for too long,

he sees spies, which turn out to be

his eyes closing in on window screens,

lashes lashing, lashed.

Post-storm air tastes like licking

a railway track but the romance

of going someplace makes the tongue

dance a little and sing ‘Amen’.

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