Milton's God
by Nate Klug
Where I-95 meets the Pike,
a ponderous thunderhead flowered;
stewed a minute, then flipped
like a flash card, tattered
edges crinkling in, linings so dark
with excessive bright
that, standing, waiting, at the overpass edge,
the onlooker couldn't decide
until the end, or even then,
what was revealed and what had been hidden.
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