Leavings from weather
that came through last night
litter me, litter us.
Times are not what you think
they are—another wave waits
it burns and can’t shine.
A shield won’t hover here
over the weal. See—rain
is neutral in this matter.
Those we misplaced or
mislaid become frozen notes
played in eternal pursuit
of the hook.
Thunder cracks and stops
in mid-roll
frightened by birds
at the treeline,
then restarts.
By-God stitch up our
beaten house of shards,
only omnipotence can save us.
We’ve turned out
to be the unchosen.
Photo by Andrei Ciobanu on Unsplash
