In your eyes
the intermittent closure
of sad rain—
roads will close
and detours offer
themselves freshly
—but you’ll keep crying
for the cloud
that caused such
electricity
even though his lightning
was a venomous snake-tongue spit
and his thunder, bullying rams
locked inside white slapping clouds
but he made you feel
soft and pink
not blue or grey as
sleeping asphalt.
So you’ll continue
on this route
until the pavement dries
and the potholes are filled in.