Thunder - Eliot Khalil Wilson

In the
Argentina of the mind,
I never work at the mid-town mall.
Never work in some cell phone kiosk
selling minutes to my strange neighbors
like the time is mine to sell.
Never dream of a house for us,
a garden for you, like any place
in this breathing might be ours to keep.

In the
Argentina of the mind,
there are no cobwebs in your night-black hair.
Where would you have gotten them?
In the basement hiding Easter chocolate?
In the Daedalus maze of your imagination?
Certainly not from some office job.

In the
Argentina of the mind,
we have the best possible rest
of our lives. There it rains when rain is wanted.
Wind presses the forest silver-green.
There I’ve a cabin and an arable acre for you.
You who are made from my dearest, lost,
Matchbox cars melted down for me.
You of the moon-glo yo-yo ears.
You of the lost cat’s silent return.
You poppy in the corn.
You sparrow in the Wal-mart rafters.
You summer hotel. You coffee.
You good mail.

I see you still set against a sheet
of Andean night.
Look, you say cobwebs.
No, I thunder, lightning.

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