A silken fabric,
black as my guitar,
brought with it rolling clouds
and rain.

It painted the road
in slicks and smears
and let its lightning play
across the sky
in electric webbing fingers
that stabbed across the night.

Heaven's screw-like spears parted
the soft, bustled clouds
and traveled along their edges, bouncing off
dots of heat and static, dancing
across the sky. They flickered, then
blew their last breath
away.


(c) E. S. Fitzgerald 2004

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