every single morning,
through thick gunmetal
clouds of your own
unknowing
which billow
like mad past the mountains
of your shoulders,
that first white-electric hot
forked tongue
of insight
leaps forth
to flash its arcane,
pliant pith
and sets something
thundering
deep in your body;
and then: every rogue
wind blast
and each zigzagging
torrent of rain blades
that follows
are just
the patterned mess
of words
that precipitate
as you bend
toward a notebook
and attempt
to express it.
