Original Sin

May 18 2017

Like throwing a switch
into the sun–no “off,” now–
at least my beer’s cold.

The lights go out; I get “lit”
and grieve spring’s perfect shapes, pitch.

Bullfrogs cry, “Fuck me!”
innocent as teenagers.
I cling to her form.

This is original sin.
Ignorant, I transgress god.

The moon looks away.
My crime shines high in the stars.
There is no body.

Lightning flashes a photo.
I anticipate thunder.

Light without a voice
split the black night gone quiet
into seen and heard.

Silence speaks to either side.
I listen in the middle.

A tentative bull
demands love after winter.
May is not summer.

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