Some days the poetry
Races out of me like buckshot.
The day strikes,
Either through mischief or intent,
And images swarm
Like a horde of wasps –
An explosion hurling shrapnel
In all directions.
My words ordinarily are a docile herd,
Easily driven at a slow, dusty pace.
This is just one of those days: I am
Skiddish 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.
