Wednesday, May 9, 2018

SUNDER

Fat dawn
rain and quaking
thunder—the kind that shakes

all those fearful white flowers each May
from the ephemeral safety of their
bantam dogwoods

wakes me,
clammy
from the dream

where you and I
flounder
outside the coffee shop just after closing—not parting,

not talking—
each clutching a particular
silver key.

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