Perfect Storm

We’ve been scarred by lightnings,

a signature runs on

our obedient backs.

 

In these times of impermanence

a proof: some trunks can bear

the permanent energy of a peach-pink fire.

 

(Give me in return an unexpected

thing: quiet wave, immaterial skin,

the tree-bark of you, my deep-black sea,

 

slow wind of syllables whispered In

a cloud-ear of hums and roars,

you mine me yours

 

perfect

storm).

 

Done