cloudtrigger

I.

and the remains of a woman who yet died at her dawn

            thunderheads;                                      

thunderheads

with                      eyes

hissing buckshot, a handful of pupils

            rolling into each other, polished

she steps into the plain, barrel-ready:

the clouds are whetted and edged

                        just below the brow, early to temple, those cheekbones adrift

                                                stirred from the fen, there is flight

how can you not be seen by the growing night

                                                              that plucks the feathers from the sky

that hides on your plate shouldered up to the bone?

                                               

she sorrys like a gunshot,

tonguing the iris to remove the wounding

II.

                                                                       

sound out ‘incisor’

            storms are hiding in words, tempests tucking in cheeks,

see

            what is swallowed

she will push down

the low pressures, driving rain

                                    like mercury, the friction-

            less, cloud-eater.

Rat God

            spit zeus

                        choke on olympus

                                                give them their fire.