I drove towards the black-grey clouds
with my shoulders bare and browned,
the front windows down.

Fat beads spread across the windshield –
the thunder was drowned by the volume
of songs that I shared with the grey;

when the wind spoke I let my elbow
catch chilled sulphur, left my right half
in awe when the rain told me it is true:

that as I drive with one hand sifting
through my dampened hair, only the yellow
element will ever love my skin so,

and were I to return home to dry earths and honesty,
I would be the soot that offends
and finds no place amid the clean –

only among the precipitate of coffee scented storms
could I become those sulphurous yellows
while I chase the grey, search for home.