I swear it was in the February
thunder that I heard, moored,
variations of a future’s breath.
It sang to me in sighs and ante-
bellum threats against singularity.
Audience to nature, agreement
advanced, whistled, tongue-
tied up in violin concertos, chance,
and my girl’s quicksilver lightning.I swear it thundered in February.
Ask my future, she knows first-
hands. I’ve given mine.
Notes
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