Will not rush through your heart like ball lightning.
They will smolder under your skin as you wait

for your chalupa in the drive-through
or latch the dressing room door at Old Navy,

wanting nothing more than to pull a preshrunk T
over your head in peace. But you must steady yourself

on the purse hook, nauseated by the spirit
burying inside you like a tick. Soon you will see

seraphim wings in the price tags,
hear trumpets in the vents. You will awaken

to asphalt poking your soles like swords of fire,
to the grocery bagger’s billowing breath.

These things will not horse through you
but nudge you like a dog in the street,

a matted earthbound begging for your touch,
wet nose you’ll never wipe off.