The brilliance of thunder
droplets against the sheen of night
leaves torn by wind
my fingertips raw with wanting;
I hang on
yes, I hang on
and when we tear each other open
like pale hearts of palm peeling,
smooth is our oblivion
and the confluence of taste,
touch, sound, sight -- my heart
beating like staggered wings
taking flight
every five seconds or so –
upon the rapture of electricity
breaking itself brilliant
over our mutual skies.
Susan Smith Nash
January 28, 2002