The Lightning Hours


The blanched lids drop
just before I wrench open
the gates. They are now
upon us, the lightning hours,
when learning flashes
fast before the eyes and sinks
deep into pockets of the mind.
The trigger finger curls
beneath each impatient sheaf.

He greets another day
of progress scaling soft
parental stumps. A smile heals
his mother's insomnia; slowly
she rises. The maestro conducts
a novel symphony
with the slapping together of hands.
In the porcelain tub he marvels
at the sanctity of white light,
refracting water. During breakfast
he breaks bread atop an easy-fold throne.

Before noon he is set to perform
at least two more miracles.
Each night in the wake
by Christ I fail.

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