Your little elbow
nudges the air
as the raindrops
line up and wait
to fall. I forget
who I was before
our windows floated
away revealing
our drawn-over
selves. Your shadow
kites above us
and whatever we say
forever hovers.
A tornado touches
gently down, black
lightning ignites
a butterfly’s skull.
Your fingers grip
the triggers of long
stemmed flowers
beneath the sky’s
television of rain
broadcasting two
smiling clouds.
Are they us? I ask.
They’re just clouds,
you say, then cut
yourself out.
Copyright © 2019 by Matt Rasmussen. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 13, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets