Tuesday, March 21, 2017

BOLT

Sometimes you wake up
at some nameless dark space

of time, on some planet,
with a veiled tingling passion—

and, for at least a cavernous
eon or two, there is absolutely

nothing to reconcile.
You think—here lies a slab, a log

floating supine; it's blank,
and it's bliss—there's no difference

between cool sweet streams
of and frothing mad rapids.

Until that first electric flash
and its thundercrack claps

hard, with a shuddering
vengeance—down at

your pure inanimate block
of sensation; rattles it, roils and

splits it back into a million
fragments again, each clamoring

and fighting it out for a scrap of shelter
with all the others. Until at last—

after several more agonizing mellenia
have passed—it sends

you spilling, now instantaneously
out of bed, freezing, running, mad

to your bathroom upstairs,
just in time—to empty your bladder.

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