The air is charged with eminence.
Red-bellied birds lose their song in the wind.
Just when will the sky crack open?
When will the screaming turn to tears?
Send the drummers running
and, before their sticks hit the ground,
give face to wide-eyed fears.
I can smell you from my window:
Amalgamation of mushrooms and clover.
Just when will you crack me open?
When will my primal state lie bare?
Strip me of city sophistication
and, before the drummers come running,
wash me well beyond my years.