Thunderstorm

SANE folk are under cover, dry and warm.
Amid the crashing towers of the dark,
Where leap the spears of battle, blue and stark,
I call the deathless Riders of the Storm.

Good women lie contented by their men,
But I was virgin till I held my face
To their cold kisses, bore their wild embrace.
How shall I turn me to a man again?

Legions who sit the gaunt, black wind astride,
I have forsaken lamp and firelight
For my lost country of Gigantic Night.
O Lovers, bear me up and let us ride!