Swallowed by the world’s creases
folding to thinness on the inclement horizon.
Swallowed in the bosom of thunder –
echoes in the small places of the body.
Plucked, in and without breath,
to leap against grey chasms of the worlds end,
and return, with only soul being scathed.
Bathed in a silver bowl that picks
the warbled flashes of mullioned rose glass.
Sweetened, as though once bitter,
by a branching growth of pale light.
Left waiting, unable to move, for some
final flare to signal a rest;
for the storm is terrible and great,
but the earth is the earth, and remains.