Joseph Haeberle, Thunderstorm (Artist Website)
Photograph, Nikon D750
Before the sun bleeds out,
he’s all Marlboro reds
and transmission fluid pink—
long fingers mottled black and notched
by the steel mouth into which he sinks them,
the yard light pitched
across his back.
From the porch I watch,
pressing his dog between my thighs
who seems to like my slow hands,
and we both watch as a cigarette
rolls along his lips
as easily as it does between
anyone else's knuckles.
The dog and I are still
as the ash grows long
and tumbles into a breeze that
swam in through the pass
like a shark, one
blind moon eye cradled where the foothills
surrounding the roosting town
become mountains.
We are soundless as the light
drains from behind the mobile homes,
blades of fascia cooled to silver—
everything about the deep blue evening drifting
to the rhythm of the rough tongue
across my palm.