Today we had a sky that told us no good thing would happen,
the kind that makes a cloudy bookplate of hopelessness and loss,
suggests we might be dupes of some elaborate scheme…
Still, we know the cosmos tends to elegy so it is some relief
when the sea ices and shifts eastwards to reveal once more
stars like bluebells against the black fen of everlastingness,
the universal proof that says: We’re all as singular as can be!
Of course, we can wait for the sky that saw the cucumber arrive from India,
the English house crumble through eleven centuries,
for our narrator to lead her horse into a downtown bar,
for an encyclopaedic sunset to set off the dragons that will conjure
our future selves — those slight figures climbing the pagoda.