Spearing the solution between cloud-mass and earth,
the afternoon lightning is a white heron.
Tall weeds flail like sperm in the storm.
Iridescent flies congregate and groom, birthed
in dog shit, nonetheless pragmatically hygienic.
If I could hold thoughts as efficiently as
the cottonwood does leaves, I’d be a tree.
shKaBAMN! Jolted, I spill my drink all over
myself and notebook—the bolt flooded
my capacity to observe. Now hail plinking,
arm hair at attention, I scramble back inside.
Cross-legged in front of the sliding glass door,
poetry in my lap, I am in love with now.
As I realize beyond this, I want more lightning.
