Branded,

both hold in the coiled-spring gathering of charge.

Fantasy and invention combat,

like twin lightning loves clinging on a warm wet twilight.

Ah, I saw it there.

But oh?

Surely a mystery could be solved on Primetime,

a trick of the chance tickled brain couldn't last.

Who knows.

Still, and still yet,

there are miniature bows running off gold

in the jagged streaks that play upon the best kitchen copper,

darting above polished upturned kettles liquid-shiny with fright.

And when I close my eyes

I can see the floating negative,

lazy white on my dark lid hinged- - with a clang it's a black cautery door .

And my throat, a wine stem, sighs

restive and waiting,

alive in the great blue electric universe,

my hard-boiled egg hope crumbled up cozy,

snuggled with a blue dream dying to be chosen.