Silver and fire dripped in syrupy orbs

Down the sky’s wide chest

Into a wrinkled plain yearning

For a departure from spent cartridges,

Spilt by steel barrels

Exploding anger toward the clouds.

As if in a hazy dreamscape

Defined by the synaptic blue,

Trees more surreal than Dali’s

Swayed to dance and catch

Each gleaming globule floating

Through the viscous canvas.

Over the smiling face of sunny waters,

Defined within the mind of Hiawatha,

This bewildering array rained forth

From the firmament in laborious

Repetition and silent premonition

Of morphing moths into dragonflies.

Like fog thinning in a waking jungle,

The dimming numbness slid away

As drip, drop, drip, drop agápe

Bathed the earth in susurrus tones.