She doesn't really want storms
It's just that she breathes dreams of storms
and what comes to her eyes,
those silly rainbows and
dead waterlilies and half-dried rivers,
makes she feel like a fat mad white rabbit
who is dancing and stamping
on you. She always knew it was you -----

Varieties of rain-clouds
Spreading like sudor glands on
her mosquito-bites covered skin
And the pores will not stop yawning
and drooling Anna Akhmatova's line
Dripping down her throat, her temples and legs; You will hear thunder and
remember me, and
think: she wanted storms.

She doesn't really want storms
It's just that she likes thunder and thinks it
as another form of sound waves her ears
used to eat a lot on Friday
and Saturday
nights.

Now it becomes faeces.
Your voice.