Hearing a Puddle

Now
the shield comes down.
Pall of darkness
reigns in the temple
I wear.
A scratch of faith,
lightning leaps about
as an insane ghost
then settles into
a dot of white fire
over a puddle
boiling from the steel,
a rushing flood
wanting to speak
to me.
I whip left into
the crevice and hold,
one, two, three,
steel pisses a puddle,
whip right into the
crevice, hold,
one, two, three,
whip left
over the Martian terrain
of the last weld
to burn through a
a Pope's nose.
"Speak to me!"
Darkness.
Jerk back.
Vulgar electric light
spattering, damn it!
High arc! Stabilize,
whip right and hold,
one, two, three,
whip left pulling the
puddle into the middle,
the Neutral Zone
where it settles,
a marbleized orb
of light and motion
floating in the dark
as Earth seen from
the International Space Station,
clouds of chemistry
drifting on its surface.
I whip left and right,
feeding the puddle
as it rises
up the steel
and speaks.



Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 1199 times
Written on 2014-12-31 at 13:44

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