Inside Me, Perhaps

​Inside me, perhaps
The axilla, a node
Or capillary, is a row
Of fir trees, a road

Curving up a hill, 
Shining under the weak
Light behind a blur
Of clouds, pale, oblique,

The light turns firm,
More sure, more warm,
Our steps are slow,
The shrubs, the gravel uniform,

Sometimes there is a snap,
Lightning crinkles, disappears,
A cold rain wakes us up,
Hisses and grumbles in our ears.