its an early eggshell evening
my first rainstorm in brooklyn
the horizon is straining to drum an apology to heaven
and rivers getting shook down in the rhythm

my first rainstorm in brooklyn
and my mind is a spider
anansi weaving some dull heartbreak
and this page is a bad joke

my first rainstorm in brooklyn
is desire
a humid day cooled by thick clouds
kisses ink stamped across my imagination
are blotted by the swollen droplets sliding slick
across the window

my first rainstorm in brooklyn
is a mournful orgasm
torrid and torturous
on an electric summer night
languid and delicious
between blankets of thick heat

i wanted this to be a love poem
but it is some sticky sweet remorse
some mouth ringed with dried nectar
of stolen fruit

my first rainstorm in brooklyn
is over
before i can finish smearing it across reluctant pages

some where
some when
we kiss under a cloud
and im not sorry
your eyes submit
to my lips
without a tremor
the air is canopy
and forgiving

is that place brooklyn?
or some palm tree place?
some night dipped in a calypso rumble?
is that place some glass city arching over a lake?

some where
some when
a sky will forgive my wishes
hot on your ear

daydreams chastised by lightning
but the storm is over
before the poem
so perhaps
some when
perhaps brooklyn

A desert parade
bloody sunset melting across the sky
red silk and spices of the orient
Green leaves made to brush away
the dried husk of day
It falls
silent and unafraid
she is a sad sultana
waving languid and unimpressed across the sand
An exhalation crawls sideways
out
like a crab skittering to find its hole
on a bed of unforgiving rock
impervious
he is a mirage, flickering on waves of heat
Can you see him?
Try
He is there and sees…appreciates
but says nothing
face carved of amber
brow jeweled with sweat
He collects the beads
forms them circular
A ring, he gives in tribute to her
she is cool as an oasis spring
her eyes, a laughing flame
giggles of incense smoke between her teeth
she grimaces sweet breath
All is not right
but cleansing will be done
they bathe in warm stone
and stitch shut the eyes of the moon
lungs full of promises
collapsed
actions full of bile
infection threatens…maybe the brink of death
hush falls like locusts
the air hums a funeral
she does not sing, her body is a song
dynamic
harmonic
beautifully listened

**This piece was generated from an exercise called ‘exquisite corpse’ with a good friend and colleague. We played by the following rules: one person started by writing three lines, then folded over the page so the other person could only see the last. The other person wrote another three lines, obscuring two, and passing it back. Can you tell which lines are mine?