Deluge
O, how I thirst for hibiscus—sail, pinwheel, singing
bowl chiming with wind. How I lust for bees—
bumble, honey, mason—metal-blue with mud-
spattered legs. And how I crave clouds—disheveled,
pewter-pearl, rain-bloated & coupling with storm.
How fox slinks, rusty-red with skulking shoulder
blades, how dragon’s gold moss glows in caves,
cools soil, warms it, nests insects & turtles, how
anyone breathes while blind to umbrosa’s cone pistil
& cherry-spotted petals, the shivering of an entire
flower around a bee’s weight, how he gilts
his legs & emerges gleaming in afternoon
to the clicking of July katydids, how later he hums
his way to hive as sky slips into its platinum cloud-
cape & guffaws in thunder, throwing lightning—
zigzag copper, sizzle, crone fingers. If anyone
lives without devouring spiderwort mornings, the nimble
buzzing of August, the crisp clash of winds,
O, how I will glut myself on their serving—pistil, forewing,
deluge.