Like blown glass, this blinking across the sky steals me away.
Lightning across the welkin – pinned to both ends of the city at first,
cirrus hovering over the west gain force
and with this force comes colour and a grubby patina.
They duel – fighting for my eye, one beating down the other.
Nothing can dampen this thrill.
The fat of my hands beat the wire rests of my chair
until it vibrates through me like absent thunder,
for there is no belch in the sky tonight; no puffs of sound.
Someone falls inelegantly into the pool –
I like when the water shakes from rolling parley.
A flash of a crescent moon in the west –
now that’s just showing off, mother, sister, father, brother nature.
When I look to the east, the shifts of light balance
on clouds over North Quay
like a nimble ballerina with crooked foot bones.
Moon rising – it skulks behind a mutinous cloud,
a flaming strap of lightning that has decided to stay.
Rolling athwart – the separation like a yolk from the white.
The yolk ascends in silence.
Jets cut across the ginger moon, as though shearing it in half,
cutting it open like a beautiful wound.