Rain at Reading

We had gathered under a tent in the park for some words before lunch and after separate mornings, and when—twice—the poet said “capital,” the lightning bolts that followed the noun had me bolting too; I’d always suspected God’s communist leanings, but now I regretted how few exchanges we know between craft and climate: imagine a rhyme inciting a rainbow, blood feuds bruising the sky, hymns of forgiveness bringing a soft new light to the faces watching the last act, waltzes and songs and declamations— this would be capital entertainment!— locked in a clinch with open air. But the lightning was as quick as it was loud. The clouds dispersed, and then so did the crowd.