Rain at Reading

We had gathered under a tent in the park

for some words before lunch and after separate mornings,

and when—twice—the poet said “capital,”

the lightning bolts that followed the noun

had me bolting too; I’d always suspected

God’s communist leanings, but now I regretted

how few exchanges we know

between craft and climate:

imagine a rhyme inciting a rainbow,

blood feuds bruising the sky,

hymns of forgiveness bringing a soft

new light to the faces watching the last act,

waltzes and songs and declamations—

this would be capital entertainment!—

locked in a clinch with open air.

But the lightning was as quick as it was loud.

The clouds dispersed,

and then so did the crowd.