Summer Storm

This night is made of steam and candles, and rainfall watched through wet glass. There are halos on the street lights, cold wet misty rings that glow so bright. And the curb stone is the world's smallest cliff, rising inches above the rapids splashing down the street.

And I love the sound of your boot heels, splashing in the puddles, crunching in the wet sand, tapping on the concrete moonscape, tocking in slow, measured, clocklike steps across my bedroom floorboards.

You slip your boots off and they hit the floor with the sound of a storm cellar door closing, between us and the tornado. The black satin skirt swishes around your ankles when you dance a slow pavane. This isn't Kansas anymore, is it?