A Thunderstorm Reminds Me of My Convictions

Its blue cathedral is trembling into the marrow
of my mouth. Its sharp houses split open

every string, then still into the trotting
of rain. I live with unburied bones

that brown instead of bleaching. Somehow
I am separate from this. I will die

and then grow old. The wheat and I will bend
to different rivers. The wind will also

brush my hair. The trees have already untethered
their Appaloosas of shadow and shine.