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’.