On A Humid Evening

October 30, 2009

the sky

illuminated

once, twice, and again;

a muted display.

The night is electric.

  

Clammy hands fumble,

the glass drawn back and

the air is thick.

  

The gaping hole welcomes

multitudes, their sirens ringing

as they gather to the warm,

yellow light.

 

A blocade must be affixed;

the dilapidated flyscreen

holds with bluetack and hope.

 

Aggravated, a spider skulks off

into a dark corner.

  

Water gushes across the

heavens, a reverberating bass;

an amplified down pipe.

 

 

The neighbourhood is well disturbed;

ecstatic.

Then waters fall, gushing

and pouring from above.

 

A break.

The air cools momentarily before

the weight returns, and its time

to rest, while the cycle repeats.

 

the sky

illuminated

once, twice, and again;

a muted display.

The night is electric.

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