Silent Thunder

My bed is the garden where voices all meet

Hands skim through the water beneath my pillow

Stones like rain wash away the hours

The hands on my clock, sex, wilted flowers

Silent Thunder pries me to sleep

Falling the edge so steep

And if my eyes shy from the morning

My lips will taste of unripened fruit

Words without a language call from the past

The future was the day before the last

Silent Thunder pries me to sleep

Falling the edge so steep