April Salzano

Brontophilia


Grey skies wake me. A low distant
rumble brings me alive. Darkness
is strobed by electric currents
that split like impulse.
Forks and forms
I cannot touch speak to each other
in a language I would just as soon
ignore if it did not require the bass,
the roll, the echo to translate.
From the eruption, I can make it rain.

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