Electric May.

Last summer took a spark and

wrapped it

round railwayed dark.

Frequencies blitzed, Hadron-like, and

air horns frazzled radio.

The colour

of your eyes is etched

deep into

my aching, ravelled flesh

so

good morning elector,

the starlings salute you.

Cackle.

Naked pens rune themselves

into stats;

the sun slippers stuck eyes through

tracings of slats

and

the opalling lilt

of the humdrum you drew

sprayed flowers with wilt

in the gathering blue.