Counting the Miles

That intermit of the storm,
when the lightening is charged
before the next hurl from God,
and his voice booms over us
commanding the flash-flood
upon us: we still cower, primal,
reduced to cave-dwellers
under our awe of the unknown:
So do not consider the fears,
as we teach ourselves to remain
in the moment, dread nothing,
do not fight, do not flight.
At the peak they made love,
with her bent over the windowsill,
run into from behind,
the storm was then earthed.

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