Contact

Handshake to handshake,

I catch personalities by contact.

Who am I today?

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Does the lightning care about my feelings?

Suddenly on a clear black night

Down from the sky bursts a gash of light.

Hurtling toward me with decided need,

I step aside with practiced speed.

 

As it gouges a hole to my right, I think–

“Does the lightning mean to cause a fight?”

 

I’d like to ponder but have no time;

The next bolt is already coming down the line.

I fear its intensity will strike me dead,

but It misjudges its aim, hitting the ground instead.

 

As the trees around me tremble and shake, I think

“Does the lightning intend to make me quake?”

 

As I contemplate the lightning’s mental state,

It takes no moment for internal debate.

With a well-honed sense of where it will land,

I stumble to avoid the blow from the lightning’s hand.

 

Before I can guess at whether the lightning cares,

My foot discovers hole I didn’t know was there.

My hands slide down, grasping at mud;

I hit the ground with an echoing thud.

 

I shout toward the heavens to ask It why,

But the indifferent sky makes no reply.

Texture

I’ve gone beyond wanting you.

I want to dive feet first

into the image of us,

break the glass of the surface,

and slide into the thick gel that holds the thought together.

I want to smear the colors of the picture

until my body is covered

in its reds, greens, and blues.

I want to feel the pressure of the image

as it pushes to fit my presence in.

I want to feel the texture

of the fantasy I built around you.