White, hot breath from the sun,
Going down, railing down on us.
Blinding flashes lunge to reveal
A yellow stripe down the grey road.
Mist tonguing the pavement.
Get us out of town, through gates of leaves,
Down into the sleeping-bag basement.
I know you hate nothing more than a storm.
Remember though, while I sit in the crank
Of the radio listening to darkness:
Tears are tears, whether from skies or bays,
And passion is passion, whether withering or hot,
So let Nature have her day
To let go of her cloudy memories;
Let her be all that she is not.
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