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A Storm To Saddle

Like chicken’s feet hung
on rusty barbed wire,
this weather gets to us.

It gets to me.

Crawls up under my skin
and sits and waits.
Waits for me to drop my guard.

Drop it for one second and it’s in.

Churning and billowing.
Cloud soaked skies.
Like cancers. Morphing growing.

Merging then splitting.
Skies boiling like stew.
Large gaseous bubbles pushed

up into the space within me.
Heat rising, it’s there. In me.
All the weather without is drawn in.

Storms pulse. And it gets to you.
I see this. I see the lightning letters
in the words your eyes speak to me.

I see those electric flashes.
I see the watering edges of
your eyelids. It’s in you now.

A storm.

Shackled by fleshly chains.
While I turn in turmoil,
buffeted by rolling waves,

you rise somehow,
heels dug deep into the
spine of the tempest and

with streaks of jagged lightening
fastened into reigns,
you ride your storm,

like a champion,
right out of town.
Bluer skies in your eyes.

My rains at your back.

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