i'll not move an inch

before the rain,

i go outside to sit at the black

table

and open

a book,

The Red Comet,

that i may

never finish,

but the trees have my interest

now,

the dance

of leaves, the ominous

clouds,

it feels dangerous

and sexual.

this sudden swirl of wind.

the roar

of thunder imitating

war.

the power in and out

with itself,

the flashes of light

like swords.

i'll wait it out, i'll not move

an inch

until it

pours.