yesterday's storm

At six it starts pouring
both water and people
into the streets to
flood our evening with
renewal and one other.

I hold serveral blueberries
in my palm
and it feels heavy
like rain.

The coyote and me
stared at each other
as the sweat found
its way to the corner
of my eyes.
I forgot a hat.
I was six miles in
my muscles whispering
enough already
the miles were going
by too quickly
we had nothing to prove
the coyote stood
her ground.

Meanwhile,

Carlos swaps the stud
for a hoop and
rearranges my jewels.
I throw out
the wrong receipt
the barista comments
on my eyes.
I tell him
they were on sale.

Ice-cold water has changed a lot.
I think often about my neighbor
who takes meth like showers,
her son covered in dirt
like my ankles most days
or rips in my clothes
coffee on everything.

It's almost been a year and I see things bursting, dwindling, growing in unexpected shapes and spaces.

I find love in weird crevices, or wrong places
it's a pull-push
take and give
answer and question
everything
credit
nothing.

a dark cloud stamps out the sky blue sky

it rained for five days straight
which never happens
and it might flood
which sometimes happens.

At six it starts pouring
both water and people
into the streets to
flood our evening with
renewal and one other.