But every leap is mad,
The electric's need
To find its gap
And fill with anything,
The void of not knowing,
Which, turns out, miraculously,
Is the thing that never can be filled
No matter how much stuff
You dump into the gullet,
It's a calculation
Blinded in light
And taken in
As pure idea,
Separate from the mind
Because inside it,
Turning every point of contact
Into a road
To plow through
Whatever brambles
Hide the path
To nowhere
That was once a highway
They might have said,
The golden road of El Dorado
Through the most nondescript of yards.
