Time, I do not understand
these forms you’ve recently chosen—
a white van swerving into crowds
on the promenade, the sounds of gunfire
some mistook for Bastille Day
fireworks. I used to know the aftermath
of your ordinary passing: dark shadows of wings
dragging across the fields, then the brief
struggle of a vole torn away from its burrow.
Or the signature you’d leave on crops— one
half of the fruit unblemished, the other
pulped to a bloody ruin. You slink
through airports and train stations,
a black dog indifferent to turnstiles.
No almanac or guidebook in the corner
newsstands can predict the tremors
of your next ambition. Afterwards,
always, the rain falls and falls.
Or the sun beats down without mercy
as we walk, counting the rows of the dead.
In response to Via Negativa: Black Dog.