I stand beneath the gathering thunderstorm —
an understorm —
and wonder on my own intrinsic lightning.
There is an invisible gradual heightening like a tingle through the veins;
the blood pumps richly out and thinly in
again, again; as if
somewhere for my part a decisive gale brewed.
There are dark clouds too in my interior
counter-weather. No doubt stars are concealed
behind their dense-opaque cover,
but now I don’t see them, whatever their glow
might mean. Vaguely,
I feel that first flash preparing to discharge
and here exactly is the long-drawn-out apprehension:
just where o where this time will the jagged spark strike home?
Chinaman Creek 