The Restless Poet

I feel the soil
beneath my feet,
soft, pure, awakening.

A swelled rumble…
vibration tugs at the edge of storms
on the brink.

Are you waiting?
I’ve been waiting.

Your silhouette rests
in the shade
of my afternoon light,

occupying every
room of my body.
Your name
—torching
the lightning in my veins.

Consumed by the ethers
of damp skin
and sinewy ache,

your scent lingers
in the rousing tension
of worship
and murderous fate.