Mike Wilson
Gaia’s on Acid, and She Can’t Come Down

Clouds swirl, black ink poured in water,
some of the clouds have volition and are
bent on mischief
                               Thunder bolts bunch in
the sky like light sticks at a concert, yellow,
red, neon blue
                           We run to beat the rain, crash
into each other, scramble to pick up our spilled
papers, bolt the door behind us, enjoy fine
dining, make love, drink ourselves into a
purple haze, tell ourselves it’s only forty
days, and we have an ark.

She whispers, Not this time