The Gene

I abhor this clapping of thunder,
the air loud and swirling like a drill
routing the tropical green.
I hate the verge
of damage.

And this war, always some war,
left like a razor on the sink
while god stuffs a shaft of light into the lake,
stirs some dirt into the heat.
Does the word “stone” give you a little starry
sensation? Do you know the blind vole
relishes the world through its nose and feet
largely as degrees of dampness and cold?

And you, dearest, what do you love?