the sky is the color of jungle slate.
the light has substance, fighting through those clouds.
the thunder cracks its whip like
a mistress in a bad mood.
the air hangs heavy, waiting to be freed
of gallons
of drops
of sweat…
why did someone, long ago,
decide worshiping invisible men
made more sense
than begging mercy of
elemental power
you can feel in the air?
i wish the rains and thunder
stood in place of incense and iconography,
and that the jagged tears of the sun
that dance across the sky
were the only angels
man ever knew.
why is august here in june?
