The Wake of the World

The wake of the world
Is at my window,
To continue the patter
In such violence sown
By last night’s storm—
I was in some unknown
Museum, a giant platter
Between my hands,
With crumbs
Of supplication
For anyone in dreamland
Who might hire me:
Crass, I know, anxious,
But what did anything
Matter without us,
Lives erased by the heave
Of winds last night—
But now the sun
With its endless reprieve
Shouts across the skies,
And since no one
Can ever fix such a night,
I have to rub my eyes,
Look around, grieve
A bit, and write.

February 29th, 2024
Kaiholu