Thunderheads

Days spent in the shelter of work
blow apart at dusk:

skirts rustle mimic rain
as shadows bloom across the draw;
a five-ton hammer taps
a crimped leaf; cutterheads
dredge voices through the wall.

Above the Chattanooga
some latent thought unfolds:

heaped clouds detonate
a cauliflower dome,
topographies of doubt,
redoubt, lit by leaders
cloud to ground.

As the first thick drop
clings to thorn, a core
of purple cabbage stirs
Bonny James Campbell
from Cumberland Gap,
pelting river pearls.

 

Roman Candles

Thoughts these days, fixed on hate,
catch fire from such varied sparks
that while one quietly explodes,
a powder-blue hydrangea mop,
another shouts, Look out below!
One repulses, one draws near;
a crowd collects as couples dance.
Distressed, a girl tears loose her sleeve
and hisses, Keep away from me.

Love's not always good, and hate
cleans the soul: free of guilt,
a roman candle drowns the stars
and purges night of resonance
(in Rome there is no room for Rome,
a disappointed traveler wrote).
Against love, you fix your thoughts
on flame, our disposition's flag.

 

Copyright © Devin Johnston, 2006.

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Devin Johnston is the author of two books of poetry, Aversions (Omnidawn, 2004) and Telepathy (Paper Bark Press, 2001), as well as a book of criticism entitled Precipitations: Contemporary American Poetry as Occult Practice (Wesleyan University Press, 2002). With Michael O'Leary, he directs Flood Editions, an independent press. He currently lives in St Louis, Missouri.