The Tempest
Recline, like summer, 
The azure ceiling tufted.
That one looks like a car...
That one a cat...
That one... disappointment...

The source is an enigma,
As if an artist had reached
Out with smeared pastel,
Dusted into the ether...
Into melancholy...

Follow it back
And see that darkening.
A green, grey bruise,
An unrelenting
Storm to come...

Feel the emptiness?
The space between all things,
Instantly filled with crash,
An echo chamber of valleys
Returning the shock...

Now hear the flickering,
A strobing, as each filament
Strand crawls across the cradling sky,
Like scribbling lines of a cardiograph,
Beating, competing to attack
With charge to the heart.

The Tempest, written by William Shakespeare, is performed for the first time in 1611.

L. S. Lowry, English artist, was born on this day in 1887.

Ezra Pound, American poet and critic, died today in 1972.

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