It smells like rain, and the stink of it
sticks to our faces and our clothes. We shed
our shoes and soon our clothes and soon
our voices are abandoned amid the rows of slumbering
apple blossoms.

Some haven’t seen it yet – Children are asleep, and
they cannot feel the earth as it trembles, or hear their parents
as they whisper at their open window.

The earth has grown hungry, and angry,
and the earth has eaten the moon. The soil yawns
in contended fullness, and the world trembles.

Hours ago, we began to fret about the ocean. We
began to fear our own earth, and to speculate in whispers
which legend it would attempt to gobble up next. Whispers,
like keepers of secrets from a god gravity won’t let you escape.

Now we’re bare and secrets tumble from lips
like baby birds from trees, hundreds of heathens flashing their hips
in the darkness that would have been a full moon. We’re all waiting
for rushing water, naked. Soon, I won’t have secrets to keep at all.