Storm Clouds
A buzz-saw wind
peppers a far horizon.
We hear the nails falling
from an impossible distance.
Damage will be done elsewhere;
instinct squeezes a grey glue
out of blind brains.
A razor-teethed storm
is coming.
We share this piddling dread
with puddle dancing sparrows,
they suspect,
we suspect,
a suspicion clouds all eyes.
Many are all thinking too much
making the sky edgy with thought.
Bundles of nerves
have brought us here
to listen to the engendered,
the endangered,
the ponderous tread of the
shuddersome.
It is then we know
that we are all Acts of God
in a ravening, infidel world.
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