Fugitive Sensibility
Another astral visit
with my dad?
I do believe it, though my reason bolts
what waking senses don’t make iron-clad.
His presence—warmth of feeling—ups the volts
my wet-wired heart’s ’lectronics will accept
(I fancy I could handle thunderbolts) . . . .
Despite the light of sun I intercept
by sight, plus hearing, smell, and touch and taste,
in none of these am I, in truth, adept.
My eyes are blind (such energies they waste)
to infrared and ultraviolet—
an X-ray’s sine wave they have never traced.
Negate these rays on vision’s bayonet?
Impale those force-fields that, in magnets, live
unseen except in iron filings’ fret?
Filings, informed, become informative
with “mystic” forces quite olympiad—
although to plain sense they seem fugitive.
So too, this astral visit with my dad.
I wake, I marvel at the universe,
complete—another want I cannot add.