Au Beau Printemps de 2013

Rain thumps and pounds and punches the roof,

Insistent as ten-thousand chromium guitars

Busting chords in a Glenn Branca symphony.

He’s out there in the dark,

Straddling some tree-limb, quite

Possibly squatting on the moon.

He waves such laughably ephemeral arms 

With such transparent temerity.

Ten-thousand fingers make incessant noise,

Incandescent eyes wrack every star.

He’s out there, Lord Branca of the Underworld,

With Debbie Harry for his queen, an albino crow

All wet-feathered and cracked song.

She spreads white wings and each 
Raindrop is the smallest poem.