_37. Lightning over Changsha (2)

The light is full tonight,
the sky mumbling to itself
but sometimes sparking to anger,
understandably.
Times like this
when the world begins to look poetic
I am filled with a vast sympathy
for its visceral and brimming noises.
The sky bursts like the schizophrenic
I saw screaming “shut up!”
at the two Cantonese ladies
beside him in front of a store’s plate glass windows.
But I no longer wait for moments to unfold
like a map of the present.
The light is arrhythmic and inchoate
but its frustation is genuine;
I am sympathetic to its righteousness.
I write it all down.
I am a jealous hoarder, now,
of occasions and lines,
but still the sky comes thunderhead
and the line of taillights
on the street below doesn’t stop
for even an upward glance.
I am not the good witness.
I am the poet only,
weatherbell and watcher,
observing two motorcycles colliding
on the sidewalk,
two men getting up to walk away.

remix friday #5