xxxxxii.

As things fell, at different rates

               we clattered down slantwise

and scattered,

                a quiet trickle of refugees

                rolling into the corners

it was never announced

                   and never expected,

that we rose downwards

it seems that time has parted like paper

hung on wood, 

it seems that we pass into a

different stage,

              the encampments of the well-intentioned

              and the ambitious,

lining the streets, behind stucco walls

you must carry a sturdy container with you

there is sufficient water,

             

            all of them quietly mourning

for their homes--but the canvas of
expectation, snaps against the poles
and the unmoored edges fly.