I have not been what I could- no, I have been washed away.

Light
spills surreptitious
from where the lightning and the thunder
reign inscrutable-
gifts no car stereo could pronounce,
no prim suit could bless forth-
the weight and worth of which the strongest ink
could not shoulder
(catch me!).

Slick and intense,

it turns so quickly gray.

Mashed and muddled and rendered invisible.

(It’s us.  it’s all us.)

It is darkness, here,
that flows-
that runs in drains.
Sparked and shimmered
purple silver
that collects and whirls in pools
on the parched, pocked, and dusty concrete
and on our desiccated skin
(we are so thirsty! who brush aside,
and hide from the rain!).