Night thunder arrives. Spacecraft descend,
hurl their underbellies of sound downward.
The next giant boom is distant, miles away.
Other places are being scorched or illuminated by hosts -
you never know with aliens.
Crackling tongues arc urban ankles.
Then on the roof, a thud and flopping of fins,
as armored coelecanth are thrown out of their skins.
Will a rescue be mounted --- some front-line extraction?
Ancient and astral, they probe us still. Only the menstrual blood
of virgins can ward off showers of frogs.
Thunder in March portends,
remember when Beethoven died? Parallel lines collide,
stunned pigeons fall into backyards.
In rain filled trashcan lids, Venus is seen
rising from her upturned scallop.
She is sexually charged, triumphantly aglow.
About her,
the fallen twitch in their electric dreams.
~~
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Rita Bourland
heidibeth
Dr. Spudman44
hilarad
Brazen Princess
M. C. S.
Salon.com
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