NOT A MOMENT
Here where the gargoyles burst their
britches, the rain pours out in buckets.
We become united kingdoms of our own
utensils - some shred of a shredded wheat
over - as they posit - our own Niagara Falls.
Wherever is the haunting mystery of that, I wonder.
Then again, thirty years later, I sit alone to watch a
midnight moon remove itself from sight. Some stand
awestruck by eclipses, when things disappear. I get
star-struck by appearances, and the visons of all that I see.
Whatever is the haunting mystery of that, I wonder.