In the green water, clear and warm,
Susanna lay.
She searched
the touch of springs,
and found
concealed imaginings.
She sighed,
for so much melody.
The lightning struck a dozen feet above
my craning neck, my thumping bass, and wide,
now blinded eyes, and rattled brain and frame alike.
Imbalance rectified so violently
by you or I would earn us time in Bellevue;
the universe, though, works in terms (insane)
much grander than our frightened mortal vocab.
It's this, I'll bet, that so entrances me.
I try to trace the golden arc of light
before the black field swallows it like swords,
and fantasize that when I find the source,
electric, of this art that strikes me so,
it will explain this tingle, touch: the urge
to rub this tongue against it, though I know I fail.
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