Some days the poetry
Races out of me
Like buckshot.
The day strikes,
Either through mischief or intent,
And the images swarm
Like a horde of wasps
Or an explosion hurling shrapnel
In all directions.
My words are ordinarily
A docile herd,
Easily driven at a slow dusty pace.
But not today! I am skittish from electric air
That blinks and booms in a lightning flash,
Stampeding all my thoughts
Out of reach.
Then for days I’ll gather
All the strays back –
Those I can find.
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