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L is for the way you look at me

Summer nearly two thirds gone
the doomed ninnies running down the shore
as any hireling might in a Don Henley video
sea beats anciently under ancienter sun
somewhere through the glare Hubble gawps at nebulae
it’s all of a piece
for all the thumb and drang the body of salted water
is clear and busy and simple
a cheap sheet of foil turning and pitching
Someone, Roseangela, exultant with fear
arms raised in fear, motherfear, the oldest fear
a child in the water and electricity approaches for its own reasons
‘Get out of the water!’
so saying, Rosangela is struck down in the shallows
her little boy escapes, let off with a warning; he was never the lightning’s theme
a photo taken by happenstance captures the instant
if not the transfiguration, which is concealed behind a pickup truck
though we are afforded a glimpse of human vapor
eyeblink shows the lightning absent its Special Effect
a drizzling-down of death
suggestion of cupcake sprinkles
delivered by the swollen mitt of a gourmand
you don’t know where the fury can be stored
you can’t let the fury seep out or rush out
that is its own mayhem
a daisy chain of damage
someone could get hurt.
but this fury is anyway as frail as you please
the chemical fury has outlived the Furies
and no longer serves a useful function
is but temporary and earthbound and inconsequential as a dryer sheet
despite squalls of sorrow and raging headaches
there is no ledger or other illusion of mathematical redress
Thor, or Odin, or whomever, thins the herd like an angry drunk
then offers succor
then offers someone else a seashell by the seashore
what is this damaged Superthing
that waves us like dolls
gives us lower case babel, organ donor cards
and a sacrament the size and shape of a tiddly wink.

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