Central Park Tempest
(or, Miranda's Empowerment)

At the Delacorte that night, we watched
a true tempest form like a fist

hammering in over the tree line
spitting out sheets of rain-nails

in the distance, it settled above the stage.
Instantly, leaves swirled everywhere,

like large drunk acridids, lightning
ripping about dementedly.

As shadows inhaled the poison light,
we wondered if,

on days when the sun refuses to rise,
is it because it cannot stir,

for having gorged itself nightly
on the pedigree of weaker stars,

or because it has witnessed some
of the same realities of which we are aware.