If there’s thunder, plug your ears.
Putter around the house in something
loose and elastic, flashlight in hand.
A power outage should turn your focus
toward storm drains and generators, away
from the memory of one specific cheek- curve,
how it bloomed with palm prints the day he spoke
his mind and syllables piled up like wet leaves
by the side of the road, wind stitched into peaks
jagged as the mountain in all the Japanese wood-cuts.
You know the one. It takes the eye so long to climb,
it can’t look down again.