I pour out
indigo,
and turn up
storm-tossed,
sticky with honey,
fingers in tresses
entangled.
Sweet storm, your
special ways of seeing,
your easy way of being,
how you
pour out into
aqueous pools of night,
how enormously ecstatic
your exhalations
fan the elements in me.
All the patience in the world
wouldn’t be enough to wait
to see how the leaves shimmy-
so I pour out
indigo,
but diffuse,
so you’ll have to come close
and lean your ear in
to listen.
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