The Separated Angel
There may not be a cloud
in the sky, but you substitute
sweat, rivulets down your face,
over your shoulders, flung
in all directions. Plain grey
shirt whips as you dance
in the middle of I-10, call
the gods of Newman Peak
to open the sky, flood
the desert, bring eternal
lovers together for one
short afternoon. You whirl,
your belt a band of gold,
ignore the cars on either
side of you, clack maracas
on your fingers, possess
each driver. What more
can the gods do? They touch
your brow with rain.