An extended metaphor.

When Angela pressed her thumbs over my eyes,

olive oil dripped down my face like thick tears.

The Spirit came like a river born of typhoon rain

surging through ancient suburban flower beds

swallowing the ghosts playing in the street

smashing the leaking cisterns in the backyard.

I opened my mouth to drink,

and I was the roots of the surrounding Willow trees

beginning to weep and crack and push through the dirt

groaning for just one moment to taste the deep unnameable rush

just beyond my reach, just beyond the honeycombs

and still invisible.

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