STAN

thunderstorm in a tent
- the cicadas grow quiet in anticipation of what's coming. a brief moment of silence and then
the booming, racuous laughter of alpine gods in the distance,
nor far enough for us not to suddenly feel human
and strangely small
i grasp for your hand
(you the lyrical subject for the purpose of this poem,
a morbid longing
a figment of imagination)
only to pick up a pen and
pen a verse or two i mightlater read to an appropriately trembling heart
when rain drums on the red rooftiles of civilization
as if to say
look where i've been, behold
it /is/ a world where you can sometimes still
hear the gods roar in joy or anger
do not grow small, o heart
do not grow scared, o soul