Thunder Moon

Nathaniel Perry

No moon tonight, but aren’t you tired of hearing
about these things, the crutch I’ve strung these notes
along? Either way, there is no moon; it finally

rained. The heat’s not broken yet, but still,
a summer sky-river made its way to us
at last. Four weeks waterless, the iniquity

of heat having curled our potatoes’ once sure leaves
into awful fists, little cigarettes of pain,
I was beginning to wonder if any of us would grow

again. But you are growing, of course, which is
enough to calm the heart, and the heart is also
calmed by the whorls of steam and wet glowing

in the window in the light of the quiet light
lit on my desk. I can hear too, already,
that the frogs have refilled the night behind the house.

They’re singing down the thunder moon, the hot moon,
the rose moon. I’ll tell you what I can of darkness,
and its song will light the rest of the way for us.

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