Amorphous (9/15/03) (revv. Jan 09)

The clouds have accumulated for a storm, as if the sky
Were loaded with potential electricity, with banks
Of storm-clouds and air-currents, wending above and below
One another in ribbons, which the meteorologist’s arrows
Seek to clarify or pass through, but can only confuse.
They are convoluted as brains, have minds of their own,
The cumulus, the cumulonimbus, the thermals, the spaces between them.
How sticky clothes can change one’s mindset overnight,
Continual discomfort breeding the urge to transcendence,
A thought of non-attachment the thought of cool antipodes,
Underground groves, walls of water from a waterfall,
But were you about to freeze to death on the tundra,
You’d curl around hearths, fireplaces would feel huge as cathedrals,
Which are forests you’ve never seen, every column a tree-trunk.
Piss off you declare to the crow who caws on the power-line
The elaborate patrols and surveillance for roadside carrion.
The owls perched on buoys looking for river-rats that joggers
Choose to ignore closing in on their requisite mileage
As men would a hole-in-one on the golf course, a game in which
they are, to say the least, covertly competitive.