Bolt

The color
pink speaks out

of turn, interrupts red

with a white streak
of thought

grenades. It rains.
Lightning decorates

the lilac sky. Waiting
for a serious dose

of thunder—there is
no blue.

The Ones She Remembers Spill the Most

She opens the cupboard to run
her fingers along those tin
canisters

of sleep. Which one
tonight? Where
does she want to go? Who
does she want

to encounter in her nightgown
in the rain? And those questions
she won’t ask: Why
don’t scandals have names

like hurricanes? Monosyllabic
male names: Jon, Jay,
Bill, Mike, Dirk, Al, Zeus,
Jim, Dick. No doubt

about it—her dreams bend
genres and tend to leak
if tipped too far forward.

No more illusions of steering
this dinghy ashore in the storm.
It’s going to rock; I’m going to remain
the name on its port side. It won’t fade away.