Had there been thunderstorms?


No, but there had been dreams


April rolls its laughter of light, enabling

The world to announce itself, bursting

Cocoons of consciousness woven by a practiced blacksmith

Who then decides to let

Coldly sweet thighs of women

Turn black streets of England into a pinacotheca


And there was a flowered procession

(June set the imperial scene, as if the day were Corpus Christi)

To a perspicuous fountain

Our coalescing presences withstood

Lingering dogs, heel-minted petals,

Our breaths (which were the beating of our wings)

Purified of the sacred distance


Melancholy torpedoes of this rain


Our bodies held to account

A dazed forgetfulness of grass

After that our entwinement was easy

Our ecstasies sung by beautiful prescient poets

And in my hand I then felt

A soft shape of attentive Summer


There had been thunderstorms, I know

But there must have been dreams