July unzips its belly
and lets heat lightning loose on the
suburbs. Somewhere, it rains
but here, the power lines collapse
into one another like lovers
weary with the weight of holding up.
Here, the dogs howl
once for yes and twice for no,
answering questions of the thunder
thrown to their side of the street.
Is it beautiful?
Are they dancing?
Three houses down, a girl
puts her hand to the window and pretends
to hold the wires seizing in her yard,
imagines herself
the key or the kite, the string
suddenly alive. How glorious
to be grounded. To know your bones
by the way they shake
inside you. To give your pain one name
and let it turn to light.
