The Raindance

something moves—
the whole thing, the heat,
a sense of the sky
like a determined embrace,
smell of ozone, and leaves and
brittle dirt, dust lifting—
the storm hits,
everything waves and flickers,
then goes still
and we are left with an aroma—
wet bitumen, eucalyptus,
green aether, air.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!


Gabriel Muoio


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