Electricity in a barren hotel
Last week, my first son shone brightly
but now I can’t perceive his light. He’s gone.
It’s a pang to not connect
by levels unbeknown like
eyes, hands, laughter, song, touch.
Bring it on,
a spark, a gleam, magnetic pole;
isn’t that what we came for:
to feel for spots of warmth in icy caves?
Isn’t that the lesson from a special boy
who doesn’t buy the goods of business, husband, father
and rather would play one part here?
A seer into embers,
melting stone, turning ice to tears of light, laughter
wielding nothing more than natural magic.
My trick is to carry the joy
in memory, because that helps
to lift the mechanical world, Newton’s physics,
boring cause-effects and all mentality
into the poetic, philosophic, myth and extraordinary.
I never am with anyone all the time
or really with myself all the time,
I am a handicapped son.
But there are spots in space and time
when it’s OK,
when a heart is strong and tender,
when iron runs red,
when ice melts
and flows like