Still
The sky is milky and blurry. Filled
With uncertainty is the sky’s psychology. Thrilling
Experiences are not promised. The will
Is diminished as it measures itself against these hills
Of water. The sun is a white disk. Light is filtered. The spilled
Crape myrtle leaves in a single night look individually killed
And litter the grass blades with redness. Like steel
Talons the branches now appear certain. It kills
Us, but we have seen this curtain fall before, and will
See it again turn the daylight milky, then curl
Its tendrils toward the middle, until
Light breaks from its uncertainties, and the mills
Of psychology again start turning out their unkillable
Particulars.
