This eye, prejudiced to distill chaos into significance
Must choose to deny what seems not possible,
And thereby align itself to a sparse and tamed universe.
Familiarity breeds contretemps
Whose fierce nature of actuality becomes evasive, creative, unforgiving.
And can lead to difficulties in living.
My bones and blood, smears of fears and tears,
Have stern concerns for elementals.
Monstrous thumps and roars can inspire panic preparations
But who can know which wicked wind will blow from some arcane sources
Blasting out fatalities with overwhelming forces?
This tiny spinning dusty spot is all we’ve got to gauge
That dumb rage which sweeps our everything
In its busy energies to wrangle stars into galaxies
That helplessly swing towards that black hole drain
In a cosmic carousel of extinction.
No doubt minuscule relevance in this might involve
How to solve a crossword puzzle, where to find
An umbrella in the rain, or if it’s safe to cross the street
When the light is red.
Fate has its obscure warning signs to make us aware
If we care to pay attention.
And, at least for me, I can ignore the role
Of that hungry black hole.
The Ovi 