Author: dust

masses: unknowing

standing in the rain
looking through a glass darkly
the screen of knowing

the mottled browns of
a bird sitting on a line
before it flies off

the organismic
fire, the womb of all, nothing
becoming something

bereft, one wanders
off the path, one arrives here
where the blue earth breathes

words weasel out of
denotations, their babbling
tones leave us gasping

sitting stunned after
the storm, Chicken Little looks
up into the sky

Chicken Little flees
through the vast gloom under the
thrashing canopy