Over 7th Avenue's buildings
the sky flashes lavender ozone--
A sideways strike of lightning
becomes a whip of thunder
Umbrellas already folding up
The canoe hits sand
and the hawk wheels away
In the rocks
we find a garter's bloody head
wounded by the next-t0-last predator
"I am with you"
Whitman's words make us all silkworms
knotted by shimmering secret threads
They sing of a myself
that is the space between stars
"You think they can't get it that way?"
My bike leans on the sign post
"They picked it up clean over one over there"
"Do you think--" "I don't know"
He shrugs and the bald head looks away
5 days ago