Fallen

Lightning seeks

the closest path to ground—

want is static, charged and always searching

a stepped ladder from heaven

a neuropathway, angel-white and pulsing

a conduction like a father’s call descending over Jacob’s head

while he rests on a rock.

He dreams of the bride at the well

the release, the way they will ease together

(kissing her, he weeps).

An upended lake of sky, never stilled—

think of the water in a cloud

meeting in the moment of freeze, the updraft

and down, the melt, particles halved and flung like wings—

think of the marriage bed

so close to ground.

He wakes, but the dream

holds him open—the stone never rolled

from the mouth

so he can ever bend to drink.

He rises on his way—a stream’s reach.

A channel made of wandering water

a thirsting flock.