Alexander Nay

Every movement of the gaze

returns to sights seen; only seconds before.

A change has been made,

in the formation.

A cloud hanging singular

the light on the canopy, or

the ways it moves in the wind.

I trace each flex,

each exercise of its power.

As it becomes apparent to me,

quicker than I had hoped,

or would have enjoyed.

Like some ethereal ballet

losing itself in the pirouette.

Until some vain dancer comes crashing down

and breaks an ankle.


I can't accept that even an inch of earth is wise,

but only stumbles half lame

to the drone of some droll accompaniment.