Remember the summer
we were obsessed with Burroughs?
Anything familiar like far off thunder
close enough to subdue mad-paced hours.
Something inciting, a strike of lightning
the scent of combustion ready to ignite
everything electric that made us come alive.
Our hearts caught between whale song and sigh
spontaneous thunder and intermittent quiet
sporadic as a summer storm.
Leonid Afremov “Rains Rustle”