We listen to a strike go in,
watch the copper twinkle of flares,
hear the pilots mark "On top."
Bombs drop out of no category
into no pattern. I don't know,
they shoot back,
the pilots note the flak offhand,
we take it in like kids at a picture show.
I don't know, a bend of river, sampans
maybe maybe not with contraband,
the great jet's angle of dive, the pilot's thumb
all come to a coincidence.
Then, too far to hear,
heat lightning there and there, there.
John Barr / from The Hundred Fathom Curve