The air was full of thunder.
Attempts at indication
Are all feinte and thus all feints,
With no transcendent meanings,
Nothing glowing of itself,
And nothing the actual
Thing that was indicated.
Still, we have some fun, don’t we?
We remind you of your life
And what it felt like, hinting
All the while at other lives
With more wonder in their nights
When warm air cooed with thunder.
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