On through the park, near Madison’s spats
Actuaries toil in gargoyle mansions,
Figuring life’s odds under gilded, gold hats.

Unmoved by the wind and rain that ravages
            The aging face of the plains,
An isolated, rock mountain remains to salute
            An endless parade of clouds.

And if I expire, if I let out the precious little place inside me,
I have no choice. I become part of the no-place outside me.

Suspended in time.
I move from day
to day..

A gesture. A pulse of diffused sunlight
The tilt of a head. A passing cloud.

We shuffle our feet in a need to flee (WHERE?).

Slate-grey, flat-bottomed sky. Too close. Hung ‘round my neck.

In a flash, I know.