With Their Thunder

Dreaming of Paris in spring, as I look out the window at dreary winter.
Dreaming of riding on narrow streets on a scooter, a pretty girl holding on to me,
her dark hair blowing behind her like the banner of Joan of Arc,
and with all the holiness of a love divine.
The mountains block the sky, the clouds ever low and colorless.
I dream of her, Francoise Hardy on my headphones, as the bus rolls on,
of her face veiled in cigarette smoke, and her smile cruel and full of promises,
walking hand in hand in ancient streets.
Dark hair, perfumed and silky, just us in the regal and pristine moonlight.
Someplace better than the rut in the earth that is this fucking town.
Filling my face with those dark locks, feeling the soft warmth of her skin,
as we kiss, kiss deep and hard and passionately, as the sun rises up.

2 thoughts on “With Their Thunder

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