from distant cloud bank, sizzling arteries
gashing ebony night through fiery white
bones caped in glowing azure, and carries
its jagged flashing like alien rites
of passage across vast farm fields so far
off its thunder muffles as if a child
was crumpling cellophane. Outside our car,
we lean on each other like willows, wild
sweeping deluge soaking our love-linked frames,
yet we refuse to flinch, though that massive
warrior’s saber surely will slash our names
on some ancient stone, crackle how we live
in danger of mad storms melting our clay
carcasses, clap how we like it that way.
Roger Armbrust
December 8,
2012
