1969

Every soul belonged to Joni Mitchell then,
back when we turned the switch –
became the strange bewitching secret
we became. It wasn’t just a game
of generational revolt – a bolt

of brutal voltage zapped through everyone –
not usually enough to kill –
a nanosecond’s worth – sufficient
to exhume us – thrill and jolt us into thinking
we had done the beckoning ourselves.

Perhaps we had. Suddenly we thought
we mattered. Inevitably we began
to spill and spatter: but the drops still
sometimes coalesce. We altered
and were altered at the altar, more or less.

.