Looks like the world's

imploding, some poor soul’s

shot out of a chimney.

 

The rest of the people

are rushing toward center,

humming a tune in B-flat.

 

Why even the trees seek

the white-hot light.  Who will

recognize the world

 

when the wind stops blowing,

the brush in the hand

still painting its acrylic?

 

 

 
`