Bob and Jackie Watch Heat Lightning From Their Porch
The whip-poor-will has gone quiet,
reeled in its song
and swallowed its heart.
Only the crickets now
chant
against the nearing brain.
In the attic
a switch is thrown:
faint thunder like punched-in dough,
luminous
mile-high
clods of becoming,
and the worst of the weather
rolls gently at a distance.
We read our love
by the light of this lamp,
and sleep
to the rain that whets the summer mint.
