St. Elmo’s Fire. Or why this will be a textbook concerning poetry for 20,999 years. Almost a lifetime.

I chicken out at the edges of it and what doesn’t come through to me at the edges of it isn’t as if angels met singing or any of that business.

We are all alone and we do not need poetry to tell us how alone we are. Time’s winged chariot is as near as the next landmark or busstation. We need a lamp (a lump, spoken or unspoken) that is even above love.

St. Elmo’s Fire was what was above the ships as they sailed the unspoken seas. It was a fire that was neither a glow or a direction. But the business of it was fire.