I wonder: Could I ever make a friend
of epilepsy? Might there be a gift
somewhere, deep-hidden in the curving bend
of seizure roads? Is there some way to sift
a gem from dirt and earth, to dig down far
enough to find a package with my name?
Would it be bombs? Or might it be a star
that I could dust off? O, and could I claim
it as my own? Regarding positives,
I can’t embrace its unpredicted flow.
A seizure often shows me how it lives
in me. But then again, you never know.