Sky’s lit today. it’s
    all moody and shit
heavy with a pregnant
  tint. we’re curved under the clouds
       in the verge of moisture

    nervous behind its refusal
    to shine legibly or puncture. we didn’t
    know to look or cover
    up for an answer to our gutted

grumble. couldn’t say whose
      turn it was to rain. we wet
   our faces with the failure to speak
       clouded content
              or divine

      its portent. we could feel
    a future’s coming to spark and
    fail with importance. speak and fill
     our cups with thirst

  to offer the god
       of uncertain intent
     in mislaid messaging. of
    fire and delay.
         of rumble and flood.

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