every gust of wind
which picks up the rain
and throws it spiraling
upwards and forwards
and backwards
and d
           o
               w  
                   n
when all it wants to do
is rest

every bolt
which feels a foreign desire to destroy
and is so charged,
but shoved inside a cloud
repressed and restrained

and the thunder
which roars and roars and roars
and begs to be listened to
only to be heard