A Rapture That Followed August Rain
By Charles Rafferty
I had left you
in the bed, the sunset suddenly
ablaze. It was as if
the sky were wine
and I'd had a glass too much of it.
Then the reeling began.
Under my shirt
that bruise in the shape
of a bombed-out
cathedral didn't hurt
anymore — the oldest parts
were gold. In the garden
the petunias
were damp in their dirt. If I walked
among them I would have left
footprints. Those purple
sores were untouchable. Already
I was rising like the flame
of something fanned.
Birds called from the crowns
of dripping oaks —
as if to hurry my ascent.
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