KC to PHX 2.24.14
lightning strikes and we breathe electric
fire like the bowls of our eyes hot with the sun
and the soul and the loss of a home -
the land mimics -
the land mimics.
i hope you hear me.
frost fangs take their time to crawl back
below the surface of the skin, the scar -
the lack of independence we find when we learn
the truest truths of what it means to be the
same fucking thing as the icicles on the wall -
jack frost's lightning blowing the pinkest pattern of veins,
fired up, piqued electric, as above so below.
nothing different between
the land below -
the line above,
down your arm.
you were struck by lightning.
and now i know there ain’t no difference
and that nervous
nervous system down below --
the branches and the roots
the veins and the frost
the arteries of land and body
of soul and spirit tangible
in the sadness of flesh and the fire at the core
that cracks the base, the surface,
the circumference of the earth
and of your wrist.