A Question Mark of Lightning
A question mark of lightning
queries the storming night sky.
Wisteria vines lie straight, shooting
across a glistening yard. Shadows belie
dimensions-and the landscape seems
an eerie surprise when illuminated
for the brief unsure second
when this electric scalpel prods dreams,
memories-night's wandering, demented
dark meat. And then, like a wand,
the bolt's after-flash wipes away
the grass, the trees, the wisteria.
Drops follow hard, the heavy-footed prey
of a tin roof's calculated hysteria.