more than a forecast

what calls the rain to me,

to be

slapping itself

against the window,

pain, fervor, petrichor

bursting sideways

and losing

control down

the aluminum sides

containing

us here;

reflected eyeballs

wide between

flashes

of sound

and fury.

the midnight

the oracle gives

up tempestuous

predictions:

easy,

ready,

free to everyone,

although

shoelaces

hold more fascinating

syntax

than wasting

time,

reading the sky.

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