I wrote
like a demented Ted Hughes
as if staring
into the granite eyes of Prometheus
everything else
forged in that stolen flame
and something burned into
me from the heart of that stone
flooding the 101 room of
the brain with uncanny
Tesla light
my skin
disappearing
my shadow
forever, etched into
a bridge across a
river now
forever boiling
and Ted’s crows came screaming
in murder after murder
the air
turned turbulent by
sheer beat of
those wings
but the pen halted
and with it the vision
whatever passes from ink to
lip to ink again
from this moment
all just a
power crescendo of
dead, Earth-bound,
resonant repetition.
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