Brady Kamphenkel


Not the wholeness of lightning
but the long crumbling thunder.

Any glint it had to it, I missed.
Have to suppose that lightning is
what’s opened thunder’s big silverware drawers.

As they close again, our power dies.
Only the streetlamps go on
glowing: their modest gift

of light looks the way this morning’s
dark did.
There is such a difference between them

and how lightning, when it strikes,
fills up the whole world, all beginning
and ending, nothing in between.


Brady Kamphenkel lives in Duluth, Minnesota. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Cave Wall, National Poetry Review, SLANT, and elsewhere. He has an MFA from the Stonecoast in Maine.