It is a perilous time,
full of uncertainty
where clouds rush by
without stopping to talk to the sky
and scurrying ants
fret about something so large
it pulls at the colony like
an invisible tornado,
this thing, this inevitable thing
that goes flying by an ant,
the tiny nerves knowing
the last leaves are falling
while the cities in our heads
know nothing but soap operas
except in dream,
where the actors begin to become narrow,
noticing the churn of the strange,
the brushes of god dipped in the wrong color,
pressing onto a fraying canvas,
about to make a picture,
about to be seen as one trembling whole
when it is stepped away from.
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