Unexpected Natural Events

This is a reconstructed and expanded version of An Uphill Espresso Machine.

I.
We wake up one morning
to bright red bombs
dripping from trip wires
in our unnatural garden.

I feel like wizards harvesting
these rich red orbs, called
to grow from the earth.
You put one between
the sun and your eye and I
take the time to breathe
you in. I only manage half
and you are shifting. My wheels
turn too fast and you come around
to stop the spokes for a second.

II.
I'm wearing two pairs of socks.
It's January.
I'm waiting for you
to wake up. In love,
I tell the pink lawn chair
that you'll sit in.

The weather in the paper
is describing systems to me.
They move like Norse gods unable
to care for anyone below. My
eyes, like ears, hear the thunder
shudder from the paper. Storms
are an awful thing to stare into.

III.
Photo albums and scrapbooks
are mushing together in rain-
drenched piles on the lawn.
The upstairs window I javelined
them through is jagged, unsafe.

When my storm passes I find you
near a pile of broken plates, settling.
The dark gray is evaporating but we brought
back a monsoon from an unknown argument.
Some unpleasant emotional travel stuck
us with this rainstorm illness. Made it to cling
on our genes, unavoidable. When I kiss you
anymore it is a bright red bomb. Tomatoes
under the sink call me to pulp them
and rub them into your skin. I know your mind
is fixated on a similar cure.