i.
 
I couldn’t say
which was first—
the snowblue dazzle
or the hiss of lightning.
A sharp sting,
the rasp of lumber,
a musty tang of
wood unveiled,
but finally, gently,
the air plush
with billowing ions.
 
ii.
 
He lumbers into my room,
his breath musty, a rasp
on my neck. The tang
of alcohol stings my eyes.
A thin hiss escapes
my throat. Suddenly,
he’s quick and rough,
lightning. I sink into
my snowblue place,
billow into a plush void,
a dazzle of ice on my lips.
 
iii.
 
I lie like musty old lumber
when I want to billow
in snowblue skies. I want
to be the lightning
that stings the earth,
the rasp so sharp it dazzles.
I lie, not in the plush
smoke of hissing
wood alive with flames,
but in a tang of decay
that grounds me.