I saw all books of poems and prose
float out to sea,
like flounder floating dead, reposed,
as dead as they can be;
their paper turned to so much mush
and print washed out.
The world would seem to come to hush
but I'd no cause to pout.
I saw a cloud come overhead —
a cumulus.
My tablet cast of glass instead
of stone awoke and thus
it searched the cloud's electric muse
and found a poem;
and lightning down it was transfused —
the poem had found its home.
* * * *
placed in Poets United Poetry Pantry — Week 14
