Karen Holman
Lightning Strike

after Jim Galvin

A bubble in a level
the brain floats.

Wrinkled gray sea.
Walnut.

Watertower
balancing on its stem.

Harvesting sun
through the eyes,

the brain shines in the dark.

Its nerves stretch
toward nerves,

but can't touch,
instead telegraph urgent

dots and dashes across
a sparkling sea of chemicals.

If the mind tears,
fast as an evergreen split

by lightning,
the four good horses there

electrocuted.

Don't even have
to shoot them.

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