behind the wildly tossing ailanthus
seen at an upward angle
through the heavy plastic of the
blind venetian
an immovable gray shell of sky
and a skrak and tangle
of wires and assembly
at the top of a wooden power
pole
things are blowing over
and then moving, Victor Hugo,
I think of Frankenstein in stone
in the pose of Rodin's thinker
lightning licking down
to headbolts
not neckbolts
the meandering barque
of the blind venetian
in spring
dirty
poor
wet old lion
thinking
it looks like
Pismo Beach
