Imperfect Storm

Though the thunder is deep enough
to rattle the stones of the castle

and the sky is whited out
for nearly minutes at a time,

none of the storm’s bolder strokes
ever seem to find the copper finials

set atop the parapets designed to conduct
the voltage down to the laboratory

below. As a result, the cold, stitched-
together dead thing lying on the slab

never receives the animating spark
it needs to kickstart its black heart.

Moreover, swollen with rain,
the clouds are so tumescently

dark, the full brilliance of the moon
never emerges, thus damping out

the dinner plans of one gypsy-slash-
part-time wolf, as well as complicating

the itinerary of a certain aristocratic
traveller, who, truth to tell, even

with his sophisticated animal radar,
is unable to navigate curtains of water.

And yet the next day, on the positive side,
damage appears to be limited,

although in the commodities market,
pitchfork futures suffer a downturn

the economy this side of the Carpathians
never really seems to recover from,

and half a world away in Hollywood
countless movie concepts wither and die

like ghosts in the clutches of dawn.

—Robert Borski