LIGHTNING

What syntax
of main thrust and
dependent roulades

is this—these orange rinds
a heap of commas
on the coffee table

or spent and satisfied
gropings
of arms and legs—

those wet
scents around us
on the couch. Wind plays

the screen door
and there at the lintel,
from the churning

fringes of rain clouds,
ancient peoples
tell wild,

tell bawdy, stories—
and look,
look how they laugh!