Faraday Cage

I stood in a pud­dle, cop­per
wire twined round
my fist, vined down my
arm, and sought to
con­jure some false
spirit with a jar of
fire­flies, an old key, a wisp of your hair.

     and
     when the bolt shot
     I felt noth­ing but
     en­scon­ced in deaf
     air, un­singed,
     a per­mu­ta­tion
     of sta­tic

yet,
over­head
the mem­ory of
thun­der. 

I don’t ex­actly know what’s go­ing on here, but that’s okay.

2 thoughts on “Faraday Cage

Speak your piece