Pressure Drop
 
Rain will paint my skin and drown
my shadow, damp kiss turned thunderous, fleet
 
contact lingering as your alien gaze
that splits me twain, turns self from self
in a widening gyre. I cannot hear my own call nor hold
 
position in wind. Here I stand, wet-wrapped
by prescience—rapt before traces
of oncoming storm no cloud or drop yet signifies.
 
What I know of incoming fronts comes through
deep recesses of scent, the tongue. My swollen ankle creaks
like a crone’s and finger joints pop. Bone-blood-knowing
 
with nothing to show but wariness of skylines. All I know
of you is weather: an ache, an absence
of air, moisture, the stuttering tip of my tongue.
 
One who insists the invisible continues
when it has yet to make itself known
is mad, most say, or holy some say, or I
 
say lonely for your lightning eye, your ozone hair. Longing,
say I, for feverbreak sweat and stillroom air and an end
to it all in hurricane flood. Your weathervane
 
spin turns me wider and wider, spiraling
under the weather. No way out but circle
through, wait for rain to wash dust down,
 
soak you through my skin and run
into the gutter and waterfall gone.