as a Kansas thunderstorm,
with a line so specific
I can see its beginning
like a shower curtain across the road,
you rain down retorts,
nearly drown in the flood.
As winding in unforeseen directions
as roads in upstate New York
carve into new territory
through hemlocks once useful in tanning
past waterways long known as ''kills,''
you rush past tall truths,
defend streams of consciousness.
As frigid as December Maine mornings
dropping mercury twelve below,
you turn away as surely as the red sky
warns sailors, disappears into swirling golden angels
before the sun
comes up to remind you
my love is right where you left it.