Thunderstorm

Angry rain on hot gravel
Slakes the summer twilight.
Steam begets a low fog, heavy with want.

My headlights pierce the blue hue with contrived yellow
And illuminate the stable.

He leans against the crooked frame
Beckoning without gesture,
Only eyes.

My body floats toward reconciling need but shunning virtue,
Vision narrowing only to the present.
A delectable myopia

Pressed against the rough cut hemlock
We would be deafened by pelting rain if not by our own breathing.

A peal of thunder
A collision of air
A spasm of voltaic heat
Reverberates remotely
        And within.

We collapse on straw bales, moldering but soft
Witnessed only by the trembling phoebes.