Not the drip of freeway from Pittsburgh but a rough trundle
on chalk roads as flaxen skies shade to molten celluloid
and I can still see them

flash in August fields like a crop of traffic lights
they flare as hay-bale paparazzi or

floaters in the humour and hang
careless in seasonable decadence

so I’ll pass from the frigid, processed air
and join them in their closeness.

No buzz but a minor hum coming from the
moment’s luminosity and then they’re gone
making good on thunder’s empty promise.