sine wave

There is a pulse that runs
from day to day
through eyes and skies
and determines
whether crows gather overhead
to pluck out eyes
or just to turn the pages
of the calendar

One day we sing and smile
the next gasp as the earth
collapses beneath us
or a flood sweeps all
toward the pit
except the crows
calling instructions overhead
moves of the chess pieces
in the great throbbing game

The piston of the world
shoves in pulls out
dragging its orbit
closer to the inevitable
conflagration

if we can
we shall spin off
in time
and leave those
birds
to play above
the pulsing sun

[print_link]