Category: Poetry and Other Writing

I stood in a puddle, copper
wire twined round
my fist, vined down my
arm, and sought to
conjure some false
spirit with a jar of
fireflies, an old key, a
wisp of your hair.

     and
     when the bolt shot
     I felt nothing but
     ensconced in deaf
     air, unsinged,
     a permutation
     of static

yet,
overhead
the memory of
thunder. 

I don’t exact­ly know what’s going on here, but that’s okay.