Poetry’s “impulse, like electricity, crossing the space, leaves its signature.”
            —W. S. Graham

No wonder that a flash of sparks
Spills out from what I touch—the LaserJet,

Brimming with static shock,
Suspends invisible electron-clouds

Across the laser-paper’s Radiant White
To print “The Windhover”

Hopkins’ creation-poem, spelled out

In powder-particle black sparks hard-hurled
From underlying fire—

The substrate of his poetry
The veiled fire of Christ,

Suffused, incarnate, metaphysical—
And poetry is where

A bird of prey is teetering
Among wind-angles

Intermittently, a fleck
Amid cloud-rhythms, then

A flickering along the morning’s
Diamond-edged peripheries,

At such a height, it’s there—
Then not—then there again—

Without my realizing it,
Between “The Windhover” and me,

A space is opened, sparking, live,
And I’ve reached through it, unaware