When lightning struck a tree,

			a poem emerged in an image:
			Baryshnikov dancing in a film—
			in a room with only a chair.
			Over it—on it—seemingly
			through—it he danced			
			the kind of poetry in motion
			that I understand from the inside
			out when I write.


				When lightning struck a tree,

			the boundaries of where I end
			& where I begin merged in silence.
	       I flourished in my creative subconsciousness.
			Perhaps I will use your secret
			for being happy
			or maybe I will write you
			gliding across the sky
			like lightning
			the way Baryshnikov danced.