I meant to grow wings.
I meant to camp in trees,
hunting the summer
moon with flinted spears.
I meant to chisel
words like hopefully &
animal & radiance
into the tender flesh
of my lips.
& thunder is
more than sound.
piston smash.
terrible
lightning flash.
oxygen.
— the violence of
memory shaping
time with its
bloodied fists —
bottle full:
jagged cold
chemical.
knuckle snap.
red hand-wrap.
in the humid darkness
of the garage at 4am,
my hands echo thunder
in a primal waltz.
