The storm waits.

The storm waits.
The storm, attraction
rough and precise, waits.
The storm, heavy in the air
longs release; for now
it waits. The storm
is nothing, really, just     
words falling
in chancy space, awkwardly
aligned weights. The
storm is, perhaps, reality
somewhere, sometime, being
beyond this attraction,
this precision, yet
for the moment
this mass of clouds, mass
of charge, this exact
indeterminate, spatial, temporal node
flinging furies syntactically apart

waits.