BEFORE THE THUNDERSTORM

So quiet that my razor clattering on the porcelain sounds like

large rusted metal rods clanking down onto broken concrete

the weeping willow frozen into inaction

framed against a milky absinthe sky

entranced

as if it’s witnessing a horrific crime it can’t look away from

the landscape has been sent a death letter

that has silenced the birds

and chased the animals away to their bunkers

the sky will short circuit soon

and I relish the thought of absolution

that the murderous waves of black rain will bring me