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

Foretold

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

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