“The sky is an engine, isn’t it?” You say nothing.
The wind gets the cirrus going
and the low clouds duck
between the buildings.
“You can smell the thunder” I say
as the cat arrives with a wing in his teeth.
You button one button.
Kick a clump of white roots.
Carlights catch your face
and for one moment–I swear–your skin
turns to moon.
Some extra exhaust drips down the pipes.
Gasoline flicks a fox-tail on my nose.
“You can smell it” I say it heads
for my throat.