Some days, some moments

shiver in extreme fragility.

A trembling brittleness

of oak and iron. Splinterings, glassy shatterings,

threaten.

Evaporations of granite.

These are the danger moments:

different from fear of what we do, have done,

may do. Different from apprehension

of mortality, the closing cadence

of lived phrases, a continuum.

These are outside the pattern.

You’ve heard the way infant and ancient sleepers

stop sometimes between

one breath and the next?

You know the terror

of wathcing them.

It’s like that.

As if the world were a thought

God was thinking and then

not thinking. Divine attention

turned away.  Will breath and thought

resume?

              They do, for now.