by Josh Raab
There is no need to fear the lightning in New York City,
shoulder to shoulder with scaffolding and fences.
The metal and concrete,
roof decks and penthouses,
will catch the weight of the sky
should it feel the need to fall.
The city’s grid and deadbolts protect you from the unplanned and they damn it.
They put whim in a cold mauve filing cabinet to protest the unmanned planet;
they find the fruits of youth and attempt to can it.
But out deep in the forest
the lightning is so possible,
the trees so wet and waiting,
your death so near,
and all other things so very real.
You remember that all of the energy in the sky,
under the weight of an angel,
or for no reason at all,
might empty into you.