fever dream sonnet with Francesca Woodman

Anthony Thomas Lombardi

i know you’re thinking of me: it’s just about to rain.
when the heat breaks, your figure finds shape in smoke
filtered through cracked clay, fissures left half-sealed with sap
& blood. while the angels stand by, i get high as mercury
shattering glass. you dive into every sewer pipe & resurface
with a gold watch on each wrist but cry so hard during sermons
about strangers the sparrows fly off, crashing like a dancer
through the curtains. when the silt settles, still as a motel bible
you can’t help but crave your own momentum—a freight train
untied by a twister. a pugilist’s arms like a swarm of bees.
silence the lonely siren in your core. a song you can only disarm.
we’ll shiver despite the sunshine, the water always colder
after a storm. it’s difficult to tell where the light invited itself in
our shadows spilling together like thieves fleeing a crime.