537

In the storm's small aftermath

In the wind-set twigs and branches

Fortune-tossed and telling

As the shaman's ancient bones,

I stood out of the moment

In future's skewed abstract.

What sun-lit crucible depending

From a morning sky?

Midway lost in willed illusion,

Mazed in self-deceit;

Then embered in rheum-eyed clear,

Letting footfall to the unmarked path.