It seems to be that poems are born
In rainbow current electric stuff
Stored in the brain for quick release.
Coleridge’s “images” and “economy speech”
In truth, the merely shorthand pulse of
thoughts, gay flowers, emotional sting,
The nascent scene to be reshown.
Our prose, slow grinder of our thoughts is,
No match, at all, for brain-wired speed.
The poem, the easy victor of the race,
Its speed apace with brain impulse.
With switch eternally set at “on”
For those forgoing day and deed.