Thunder in Kettles

And then finally the rain
comes to crash night into its lover
lighting to pronounce a distant crack
of ecstasy. I won’t go

to the window. I know. Tomorrow
morning the world
will smell of lilacs and the memory
of wet concrete

and bark. And into it
I will walk around a corner
ready to give desire
another chance.

Bourgeois Fiction (Day 2,993)

What she uses to wedge
beneath one leg to level
the table could be a match
book she no longer needs. Could be

a roll of used clichés she’s been saving
to stuff in his pipe. But it’s gone—ashes
have settled to the bottom
halfway across the country. The bowl

never held much to make it worth wasting
a light on. As for the rest, she’s busy
writing it down.