How does the world do it?
Does it fold its clothes
or scatter them in the drawer?
Does it shop on Saturday
and plan each day with a predictable
physics?
Are there wild cards in the deck?
Or is the deck stacked?
Does the future come at us
or chase us?
Are we winter,
and melt when spring comes?
Can nothing fade away?
Ever be touched?
Filled?
And the mind destroy itself
before it breathes,
leaving behind
shadows
that suggest
somewhere that never was?