Chuck Levenstein
Flood

The air is charged with electric current,
no smooth swift stream
but tumult of words and feeling;
visions rise like mist and disappear,
potential grazes the skin, no choice
but to swim, no bank in sight,
no scrubby island, no floating logs
to save one's life -

I love the crazed flood of power,
conception swept away
like a mobile home, ideology yelping
like a stranded dog.

Poems are my lagoon,
a moment to straighten
one's clothes, examine new bruises,
massage old aches; a moment
to note flashes in the air,
survey the horizon, check depth
and direction, to breathe.

 

 

 

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