Alexander Hamilton composed a diary entry
late in the 1700’s describing the evening
a cow ascend from this pasture, lifted by ropes
to an air ship “resembling the Santa Maria,
cruising in the sky.” Mozart felt the rush
when a stranger in black sailed through his door.
One guest on late night radio from Portland
unfolded the story of guarding two weeks
to glimpse the shadow pointing sword
his wife insisted loomed beyond the drive.
Most evade the strange. A five foot shark
in Iowa blended in a Pacific water spout.
Sure thing! Mystery creates trappings
birthing the spirit, like the skein of cheesecloth
curled between a spiritualist’s thighs. Charles Fort
studied high strangeness, blood rain in Calcutta
and three dozen lapis lazuli laced snowballs
shattering streets in Paris. He concluded
something out there considers us its toy.

Fort searched print in city library basements,
squinting at yellowed pages, jotting small cursive,
boxes of scribbled notecards and a profanity
spouting parrot the legacy left his wife.
I’ve tracked dark roads rutting night, and snow
packed trails weaving depths of central parks
tempting vampires to flash their fangs
or Spring-heeled Jack to skewer another cat.
I’ve tasted the rush and wild dilation
of whispered forces almost kissed.
I’ve yet to be food or fed. Spiced blood waits
punctuation to arrest breath, to prove me right,
to drain all doubt of secrets beyond belief.