The sweat on my lip
brings this barometric memory
of heat and flesh
to the forefront.

Two fronts,
a Summer monsoon
where pale lightning plays
through reefs of golden cloud
circling an alabaster cliff
humming like live wires
with soft and hard design
with rain and sea spray.

The curve of your back
is a horizon.
The lines carved on your chest
are highways and slipstreams
above which gulls wing and wheel
below which mysteries are concealed.

And I sigh like thunder
to the softness of your storm
and I sigh like thunder,
to your silver screen embrace
I sigh like thunder.
I sigh like thunder.