Creekside

Clouds become one cloud in the name of rain. But have they ever been free? Is a thunderstorm a union or an argument?

A jet above the storm covers the air in a kind of thickness. I dream I am an animal, creekside, as it sounds. Of what it does to instincts in dim light, instinct unmoored by self, by wishes and falls into mirrors, by wants of warm blood vacant from the cruel, sometimes the gentle, sometimes in those closest of our rooms, in drawers overstuffed, on tables peeking through papers. In our beds, on phones or televisions, each illuminated wound we point out to others, hoping someone has thread and needles handy. Every wound we’ve asked for. Demanded, for comfort, or relish.

But the creek floods. It is flooding. It desires it. We are all animals.

Dim light blots into a coffee cup. The gardener is entertaining time again and it is all I can do to not find a puddle, dive, and disappear completely.