Wherein does the heart
get its authority
to pick up the mind
and take it for a rolling ride
through a countryside
of gallant impossibilities?
My heart has leapt me
to a moon for no more reason
than it had to, on the chance
a fireman's net would be
back on earth to catch me.
My heart, no longer
trifling with blood,
pumps pure electricity
because I merely
breathed for eight months
the crackling of
someone's lightning mind,
now gone.
Nothing is left me but to thunder
and wait for the ozone to clear.
From Thunderbolt Blooming (1994)
by Alan Harris
