immortal bodies

The pavements are sodden,

and it stopped raining half an hour ago.

Lightning is exploding above

and not a whisper of thunder.

A celestial thread might have been lowered,

and dangling

five hundred feet above Bloomsbury

a pair of opposing gods are fighting,

tearing

with hands and teeth

the flesh of immortal bodies

ripped

constantly,

fleetingly

open

and in the moment of exposure,

energy is lightening the sky,

and the sodden pavements

and the bricks and windowsills and the tops of heads

are drenched anew

in blistering,

obliterating

blue.

And my head should be pounding.

But it isn’t.

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