The world’s a-thunder and I find refuge only in lightening. The streets swim with stray dogs and books moisten into amoebic sutras of suffering and persistence. I don’t know which direction home lies, I’m that close to the equator. My pants stick to my legs as I throw a borrowed and broken umbrella in the gutter; the banyan trees do nothing to keep me from this warm disintegration of sky.
In lightening, or in the moment just before lightening, I imagine a silvery cave, a geode suspended in space, no other ground or gravity. When it cracks open to reveal lavender, its silver going matte, I see myself inside it and maybe a desk and chair, split from wood or wrought from iron by the electric moment. I stand upright in the isolated diorama and think, I could fish for stars from here.
Or in another time, I sit at the edge of an ocean amongst palm fronds whipping in the gray wind. A waiter comes to me to give me his uniform which I do not want. He strips down naked and sits beside me. We cannot see any fish in this ocean, we only see mute crows battling day.
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