While I was still holding a stomach ,
The hail banged right on the plastic
Its luminous pearls lost to posterity.
Grandsons have them on tongues.
Stories shall be told on deathbed.
Our extended tongues tasted none
Of the icicles except sold to future
Grandsons in time’s vague womb.
Do not hold a stomach for thunder
That is when a hail falls on a plastic.
Stories do not make perfect storm.
Hold a tongue up to sky to catch it.