In the Air

Sometimes I can’t tell

if I hear it or feel it:

friction in the air,

not quite enough

to create a spark,

just the crackle that says

this

con

nec

tion

is in

complete,

something is loose,

f

l

o

a

t

i

n

g

where it should be fixed.

The tone of your voice,

the hesitation embedded

somehow louder than the sound,

breaking in

all the wrong places, a bridge

collapsing, leaving me

clinging like a sock

to a sheet fresh

out of the dryer, flat or

fitted doesn’t matter,

the static clinging to

your words, flat not

fitted matters. The disconnect

irregular, arrhythmic,

rubbing the hollow tone

against dry words, sparks

in the dark with nothing to

kindle to flame, energy with

nowhere to go,

an ellipsis stuttering dots

insisting

this is not over, this

AM radio signaling me from

anywhere

when the climate is right,

cloudy storms bursting between us,

electricity finding the

highest point,

striking—

all that latent fury,

connecting airwaves

and bloodbeats,

clear reception stretching

over mountains and rivers,

cities and towns,

forests with trees who may conduct

the crackle to sizzle

before bursting into a column

of fire while rain

pelts the earth, your voice

clear and true, connecting through

electric air, the sound waves

undulating,

dipping and rising,

rolling like the tide finally coming in,

drenching my skin, washing

through me. I could

end this

by licking my lips—

electrocute you

with a kiss.