the tongue of thunder.
whether you be lover
or friend, to me

tenderness is a bloody
mouthpiece. Or the knife's
edge honed on my teeth.

honesty to me is a fore-
cast of storm, signal
number 3, and temporary

as a raincoat is my arm
on your shoulder. Mine
are not the words

of the weatherman, so
always let the umbrellas
bloom in lieu of sun-

flowers drooping under
a downpour. Kindness
is some kind of burden,

and nothing staggers
this stabbed man except
the flood you have to

wade through when I go.
Should you follow,
you might yet know

why rain ryhmes with pain.