ball lightning

collecting cold deep breaths in under

swimming desert nights. water mammals always.

rock crystal lawns of body hair—

salted skin dips.

pupils dilating to take all of you in. fireworks

for some. waking inhaling

air thick with coffee you didn’t make.

incandescent joy overfilling up

a fluted throat

spilling champagne streaks down cheeks.

irises tinctured with golden

hours as seen through squinted smiles.

grand inquisitions from tiny humans.

vibrations in air that drum

in ears to pull up toes in tandem.

finding a place of peace.

jolts of gratitude grounding striking your spine

to iron into the heart of the matter.

the colors—purple—

that only come behind eyelids closed

to two pm sun.

What's in My Journal x William Stafford

Odd things, like a button drawer. Mean
Thing, fishhooks, barbs in your hand.
But marbles too. A genius for being agreeable.
Junkyard crucifixes, voluptuous
discards. Space for knickknacks, and for
Alaska. Evidence to hang me, or to beatify.
Clues that lead nowhere, that never connected
anyway. Deliberate obfuscation, the kind
that takes genius. Chasms in character.
Loud omissions. Mornings that yawn above
a new grave. Pages you know exist
but you can't find them. Someone's terribly
inevitable life story, maybe mine.