Lightning climbs sky,
cloud to cloud. In jags,
earth's atmosphere-shell
cracks. We are watching
the egg break; from inside,
we are watching, soft
as embryos.
It was not
the end of everything
when white light ran
through the iron's cord
and set the shirts on fire.
Great-grandpa carried them,
so the story goes, to the tub --
limping, hands searing with heat
of some celestial flame.
Heat, light, cool night;
drastic dance of blank and vision;
the purring of rain and the fateful rumble,
thrumming floorboards and the tender
hollow of the throat --
with dreadful longing, concussion
of heaven and earth.
cloud to cloud. In jags,
earth's atmosphere-shell
cracks. We are watching
the egg break; from inside,
we are watching, soft
as embryos.
It was not
the end of everything
when white light ran
through the iron's cord
and set the shirts on fire.
Great-grandpa carried them,
so the story goes, to the tub --
limping, hands searing with heat
of some celestial flame.
Heat, light, cool night;
drastic dance of blank and vision;
the purring of rain and the fateful rumble,
thrumming floorboards and the tender
hollow of the throat --
with dreadful longing, concussion
of heaven and earth.
A splendid metaphor in the first stanza, and a vivid vignette in the second; of course, I love the sound of the third stanza best!
ReplyDeleteThank you, Thomas! The lighting I was watching before composing this poem sometimes ran up the sky, instead of down to the ground. When that happened it really did look like an egg cracking!
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