In Which If It's Going To Be This Humid, Then It Really Should At Least Be Raining.

they think in promises or
fragments
of spiderwebs between
curtains and windows
or spells and magic words
floating on certain kinds of smoke
(not inhaled not burning throats
but) silken
across the room,
or sometimes
every once in a
blue moon they
think in weather formations,
and that's when you get
those storms those
lighting-hot boiling-rain
thunderstorms
that make you weep
and at the same time
be.

In Which I Think Maybe I'll Give Myself Weekends Off Of This.

it's only sort of
in spiders crawling under
sunrise-golden door frames
or in breeze-ruffled
oleander-petal afternoons or
in evening sips of cold red wine
through previously parched lips
or even in the burning
incense that takes me back to
starlit-jasmine summer nights
when everything was
not better but less hard
not softer but less responsible
not lonely but less full of you.