Passing

There is no moving
from underneath

the horizon
gone thick
before,
above,

and avenues
entwined
in thick nests
of dreams.

There was a derecho.
We were
pushed to rivers,
shores.

Our fires lit
a low belly of clouds.

Our eyes were wide,
and gathered to them
dying stars.

The old world is passing;
the way children were;
the way light
came through
church basement windows.