morning thunder

thrust your heady head
in between tennis racket strings, when you react
to the rift in the sky
is when I see me.

Rope the sky with white wire, plinth
and liminal and great green. No more sky
no more mushroomfirecrackerbloomingfromtheearthernsea

Harbinger of mudlongs,
I salute your hungers. I want to appetize
myself in your wrungings.

Bell, round and grey, brassy with rain,
you pretend yourself a cloud. If I could see your
'west of here' and raise you one 'dollop,'
we might have a game, a game.