Shake the Thunder from the Sky

In the tomb of his hand
buried with our storms
morning opens the earth
fingers toss dirty lies
between sighs lost in
transfiguration

in the room of my eyes
staying in my view
he lays down onto
our mattress sky, blue
and each hewn wound
subdues the truth

painting into new bruises
what loosely translates
as a new phase
useless to praise us
but true enough
to save us and in

that tomb, my palm’s
staying tuned to
every station as in
our sorrows we move, making
love our way, and at the foot
of cavalry to booted men

we lay down onto pavement
our deference, proving
what hands hold up
war cannot condemn
so saviour, what can
I do to soothe even

you, who knows not
how we got into this
cruelest fiction?
If you let go of it—
your poet’s prison—
will you miss him?

Will you address him
as your prophet
when you cast off
into his open plot
what he thought was
your love, but was not?

Can you shake thunder
from the sky and hear what
silence does to your heart?
In the world under the
rose bed of our thoughts
two liars make dying an art.