A rain-weighted branch
drops its load on my shoulder.
Sudden nostalgia.
—
– orha writes
A rain-weighted branch
drops its load on my shoulder.
Sudden nostalgia.
—
– orha writes
The tremors of rain
on every surface—even
on the Wi-Fi box.
—
– orha writes
A line of palm trees
comprises the pendulum
of oncoming storms.
—
– orha writes
I become a drum
first in the stretch of my skin
and then the cane’s thump.
—
– orha writes
The pink Myrtle screams
its celebratory dew
into our blue drinks.
—
– orha writes
My paper airplane
made with perfect craftsmanship
must disrupt the class.
—
– orha writes
Dizzy, cloud-gazing
that’s the point of sight—to see
the unmoved, moving.
—
– orha writes
Summer mosquitoes
have inscribed their initials
into teenagers.
—
– orha writes
I tip my wet hat
to the rain-slicked overhang
on the building’s head.
—
– orha writes
In the swimming pool
my leg hair becomes a brush
of sky blue chlorine.
—
– orha writes