Wednesday, March 13, 2013

Field of Gleams

The Lightning Field

Thin, chill air goes slack around you
punchy from the drubbing
it took, begging a moment
of silence to absorb the blow
and all that rain
a real gully washer

aligning toppled right angles
into a glittering cube, raw
from a good scrubbing
shedding curtains of water flush
with grit, spent casings from an epic
shelling, replacing all your memories

of frail veiny lightning. 
Fate tempted and humbled, sweep into
The Lightning Field, nervy and brash
on the margins, the brass leaking
away the deeper in you go
polished stainless steel sentinels

at intervals of 220 feet
the silent roar of 400 slender mirrors
piercing, tapered points patiently
describing a plane but you’re not listening:
smeared by a blood red sun, engulfed
in a fired cathedral, spires set aflame.

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