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.