So focused is he on the mystery of
Dew dripping off rose petals
That his photographic eye
Cannot hear the rising wind.
So afraid of missing
The final song of the hip hop set
That he fails to focus on
The solemn sibilance of the breeze.
So caught up in the
Slinging of flesh inside
Memory’s cotton fabric that he
Will not hear the coming storm.
So the lightning reflects on
His retinas three times
Before he registers the act
And notices that he is
Too far above the waist of
The mountain to flee.
