Storm at Point Sur

Stillness is the harbinger of desire,

containing all things. Look how, wings unriffled,

the gull hangs in this weighted purple air

that carries the burnt smell

of an approaching lightning.

The ground squirrels have all

disappeared, knowing the storm

in their nostrils, their porous

bones. Salt on our tongues, lips,

is the first taste, mother-sweat

sucked in with milk. Today,

if we two kiss,

what is taken? What

given back? An uneasy light

flickers at the edges of the giant cumulus clouds,

in your hands.

Leave him, you say, why can’t you

leave him, your thumb tracing

the small nub of bone just above

my elbow. The cry of a cormorant

falls from the black cliff into

the black sea. We live our lives

by metaphor. Shape, season. And now the wind

flings fistfuls of grit at our hair,

eyes. We begin to run,

but it is difficult on this loose

shift of sand. In the distant parking lot,

only our two cars, smudges of brown and blue,

to take us to our separate homes.

I stop to shake

gravel from my shoe, then walk

barefoot. Deep under,

safe in their tunnels of packed damp,

claws furled, the sandcrabs wait

for thunder, for rain.