Singing on the pane,
come a barrage of salt and pebbles
and Chinese stars
and tapioca pearls
and thorns and whatever
shrapnel the
skies can devise
to remind
us that every above
has an above
to be beholden to.
Lightning cleaves one tissue-thin
plane from another,
turns everything silenter
as we stop to count the distance
the threat,
the safety circle
around the blinding, electric scythe
Thunder clears stale ambient
noise, staid pockets of sound
and pattern,
ruts of steady step.
with a crack
no less effective than
a reared-back punch to the jaw.
A enraged heart in the center of the sky
booms with an arrhythmic fury,
pummeling all comers.
And then, it recedes
into a rain
Intent, thick, swollen, sick.
Screaming against the skylights, shields,
asphalt and
drowning worms.
Amidst all this,
we sit. Eating popcorn,
drinking sweet green tea,
and feel the cool breeze
of our half-hour
reckoning.
Published by crepuscularious
