The idea grabbed him, wouldn’t be ignored,
but sitting in the pilothouse of his boat
he tried, watching things people threw away float
around the harbor where he kept his boat moored.
He hoped for rain. It didn’t. Bright sunlight poured
down like ironic storms. Sounds formed in his throat
and he put words around them the way a coat
kept him warm and framed his shape at his keyboard.
In a world of creatures, a world of instinct,
the way a boat at anchor has its tether
a battery for a creature of magic
can connect things. “Magic,” the alchemist winked.
“Sky and ground and lightning in heavy weather.
Boats float. But storms pass. A feature too tragic.”
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Thunderous Glamour Of Batteries
Where The Tree Goes Into The Ground
The Time Of The Dinosaurs
Irving Berlin’s Piano
Quasi Una Atomic Octopus Fantasia
Batteries And Bunnies And Bras—Oh My!
A TV, A DVD Player And A Cloud Somewhere Above Me
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