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What a hurricane.

Gravitas. Wondering inside circles. All a sloppy walk.

Space does not weave us, yet we grab aimless.

A strange card flips.

A hammer hits another nail.

In the musty local hardware store a man crumples

one last time.

Sirens scream to cold window panes

a clueless night.

A whirlwind ensues billowing

murky mind

all and all

it is a garden of neglected moss.

The ceiling sinks in. The work has been undone. The work has not been done. GREGORY MARK SONDROL © 8/4/2019