Perihelion: An Online Journal of Poetry and Mayhem
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Mark O'Flynn

Storm

Nothing more than a dripping
gutter is left of the storm

now blistering the eastern sky
rumbling there like an amniotic sack,

like a boy on the roof nudging
loose bricks through wet cement

changing forever the draw
of the chimney’s suck,

or a boy at play
with a torch under a blanket

where clouds swallow lightning
over the horizon,

that boy, his vision
illuminating arteries

and strange new organs,
the gift of rain

thirsty music
guzzling in the down pipes.
             His gift… his gift…