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