|
|||||||
|
|
|
|||||
|
|
|||||||
A storm broke broke out last night and heavenly illumination made a black rainbow. Seven joyous arcs of indistinguishable black, curving from the mad horizon through oblivion and back to the mad horizon.
In muddy thatches and unconscious suburbias the crickets tune their forewings rubbing a twelve hour sonata to the Milky Way. The rainbow begins over there, where a forgotten amusement park is slowly eatem by oxides.
Hail pierces the skin of the hills we played on as kids, this afternoon, when the sky was clear and laughter grew on trees.
The spectrum died last night, under the hoof of a horse with an unlucky shoe; replaced by a series of gray gradations.
At the other end, the pot of gold is indeed gold into which sharp hands thrust and jab, knuckles bleeding, sandcrabs pincing at will o the wisps.
The killcrop is tarred, feathered and set aflame. Each precipitous drop holds the reflection of a different unsavory act performed this day or a day past. That's why the rainbow is black.