Thunder
mutters in the Delta,
a
storm shouldering Vicksburg,
striking
town with blunt
punches
that shake
tall
windows in the room
where
my wife plays her violin.
She
stands there
like
the tame doe of our neighborhood,
startled,
and staring out.
I
take her hand,
and
we dance in the downpour,
and
we sing to all the small
nouns
that pound human lungs
and
drown human voices,
one
syllable at a time.
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