Random Acts of Poetry

Random Acts of Poetry

The Swerve

Something caused it:
an unlucky number, perhaps,
or the hara-kiri desire
that makes stars fall
in the dark.

It may have been a crack
in a dangerous sidewalk
on the wrong Friday,
or the weird beams that flash
from a splintered mirror.

Anyway, it startled the horses,
pulled the sun behind a cloud,
played ominous violins,
made crickets chirp
with dire prophesies.

Now we sit suspended,
teetering on the canyon edge,
staring down at a poisonous fog
that rises with lazy hauteur,
slow and inexorable.

Waiting for the wind.
_