From the way, July evenings,
at the tiniest quake
in the gathering
gray, the rodents
all burrow,
the sparrows
pull-up stakes,
and even the proudest
blossoms of summer
surrender
and invert
their petals—it is plain:
all must submit
to the thunder’s
mad authority;
all beauty
is contingent—must exist
on the border
of abysses,
of Charybdis's fantastic
maw of ancient chaos.
What a precious
and terrible gift
we've been given—
this graceless susceptibility
to vicissitudes of wind;
this indomitable
ground; this savage,
hellish heaven.
