Random Acts of Poetry

Prophet

I see pale
lights
in a looming evening
in a dark room.
I see me,

sitting on a cushion,
paying close attention
to spooling
threads
within,

stirring only to close
a window against
traffic racket
or relieve
cramped ankles,

eyes closed,
listening
to a mysterious
word
like "chrysalis,"

silently chiming.
I'm beginning
not to care
so awfully much.