The King of All Possible Tomorrows

The disembodied fuses of the morning Lie discarded like the aftermath of sex, And splinter icy barbs against the windows, As the wires split and fray and don’t connect. There’s a bird that coughs monoxide on the pylon And a dog that barks pneumonia on the grass, In the distance drawls a baritone of thunder Foretelling of the storms that come to pass. Like the king who rules all possible tomorrows I dice with love and sex and life and fate, As she strips, her nylon sheaths become electric And I sit and watch with wonder as I wait.