Our cloud structure forms, your pilot streamer
flows toward me, my stepped leader following,
your atom and my electron dreamers
bonding, our shaking arms and legs glowing,
then flesh flashing in jagged limbs of white
fire—Thor’s laughing ire—as we bolt the bed
with passion’s searing volts, our savage rite
of passage lifting us like angels’ heads,
vast-current return streamer leaping toward
some whirling heaven only vincible
souls risk and reach, slashing like flaming swords
through massive clouds, forming a crucible
of celestial sprites, elves, even blue jets
reflecting in our eyes like amulets.
Roger Armbrust
October 11, 2007
