Suddenly it's a series

Untitled Sonnet 1

When we say the same thing at the same time the world
turns inside out like a glove. I was walking
and the rain was covering my face in little kisses.
I pictured you and I pictured your hands talking
inscrutably through a magical telephone,
electricity modulating like a set of lungs.
I see the whole scene through four inches of glass.
When I awaken, the atmosphere is curled
asleep around itself, and white noise hisses
from the television (left on all night).
It's morning. Your eyes are the color of a dial tone,
the window is a field of light green light,
and you are million, multiple, like the grass
blades stretching up to the little sun like tongues.

Untitled Sonnet 2

We lay for days, letting the doubts collect
like mildew on the sponges in our skulls.
I was the psychiatrist, and held
the silence still. You had an amber rod

and ran it up and down my back, "to draw
the evil out." We saw the Northern Lights
once, from the window. You snatched back your hand
when it brushed past my leg. The impulse then

electric burned a little circle in
your skin. That's when the CD player skipped.
The room began to darken like a cut
apple. Some fuses blew, and orange sparks

leapt from our bodies to the sky and back.
We danced like candles in a microwave.