Summer Mountain Lightning & Some Music
Tesla, maker of homemade lightning, put sparks
in a wall by mistake. He never
had much of a lover & now they’ve named
a car for him; & now a tanager in the pine
has perched upright
to put itself in danger for a mate.
If, like a fire, that sound had three sides,
if like a point, a flame, it would be
pure geometry; such objects that strike you
as beautiful, you cannot name.
Tesla moved to the mountains, began
shooting rays, sexual Es the hawk gave back,
into the abstract—days adept
at non-nothingness—far past a life & its shape.
The great resister
stays in you, plodding, then
the blind harpist plays. Between magnetic poles,
they place a motor made of money
to drive the horror of an age—& daily,
these unmanageable patterns, & weekly,
the magnificent ordinary.
The next thing you make will be different.
You stand in the field not yet being
struck, talking to nothing, jagged
& unsure. You knew this
when you started the experiment; you wanted
to be changed & you were—