4:30 am, driving east, the dark
of the distant horizon
split by a sudden lance of lightning ~
Later, even deeper in,
Each bead is a pod of sleep
Three beings are there, for me they’re men,
the subtle currents
Of their meaning are seed-like
Concentrations, still distant potential
But aligned on the strand of time,
And tied round my wrist and neck.
The earth, and all living things
are laced with unseen brightnesses.
The lodestones arc their prayers
To the nodes of friction in the clouds,
Every cell has an elf with a switch,
Clicking the code of on and off,
Red white, cool hot ~ the charges ripple
Down the sperm's whiptail
And course contained
In the ovum’s membrane.
Praise – imagine the ripples
In a pond reversed, rushing
toward the hollow center
of the moment before
the bolt leaps to the sky,
threading this to that,
then to now, the strand
tied for your sake,
as a reminder.