There is some visceral pleasure in the physical
creation of letters, words, sentences. And on the
porch: lightning hammering silently. Lovely
ballerinas of light, the calloused asperity of their
soles. Bearing the heavens. Their queiscent beats,
end points. In this sentence a man is writing
poetry. In this thrust of electricity he is chasing
his loneliness. In this pirouette he is deep gratitude
for the silhouettes of the trees. The soft landing,
elegant as a hand over page, illuminating.