This calm spins
a deceptive
balance.
Not so much
the calm
of a storm,
a momentary
break between
destructions,
a respite
from
the bullying wind,
but rather
a tense
calm
like the surface
of
water.
Whether in a glass
where the tension
holds the water
above the edge,
or in a lake
across which
a bug
skates
on long
thread-like
legs,
the calm belies.
Fish swirl,
dart,
break water
devouring
the oblivious
skater;
the water
pushes
against the glass
seeking
a return
to the sea.
Clouds
drift slowly
across
the mirrored
surface
of the lake.
This calm
makes me
nervous;
I’m thirsty
and reach
for the glass.
(from 115 Missing Days, 1996)
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