Billowing up from a pool
of recent exchanges, and folding
molten, in festooned excess
accumulate like snow,
decaying and hanging on
till time, our machines, and the new calamities
wipe the earth clean.
My soul sleeps
cocooned in systematic repose,
fears, cold air, light and appetite.
Inattentive, lingering, I allow
the fraction of glory
still visible above my windowsill.