by Bruce Boston
The secret of cold fusion
is galloping away
on the Black Stallion.
The secret of cold fusion
is sly and imminent
as your dead relatives
relishing in their coffins.
The secret of cold fusion
whispers in your ear
so quickly and quietly
only the legions of Mars
could savvy its diction.
The secret of cold fusion
echoes in the corridors
of skyscraper dreams
in an age of leveling.
The secret of cold fusion
chokes on the roaring
turbines of its own
unreliable verifications.
The secret of cold fusion
is alluvial and rich
in sedimentary deposits.
The secret of cold fusion
sleeps in the crabbed alleys
of an incandescent future.