It’s pouring. It’s the dark bone chilling lonely
un-regal kind of rain. I want to believe in this
imaginary life. Where the bluest expectations
of the sky meet a honeyed sadness balanced
over the horizon. I remember knee scrapes on
Hennepin Ave, faint whiff of weed in her smile
when she kissed me. Oh man, the rain was neon
full color. It was salvation, sex, revolution falling
from on high. The thump thump thump of bass,
the staccato siren-whoop of reluctant cop cars
crawling through the crowd. They had no clue
we were drenched reborn; sanctified, immortal.
by Alex Stolis
Editor’s Note: It has been just over a week since Prince’s death and artists are struggling to process the news. Memory is tricky, but this poem’s imagery paints it with such vivid detail a reader can’t help but taste it.
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