Sometimes

Sometimes, everything pinions.

Everything is changed.

A few people see it, or understand.

They nearly make it to shore
near Wilmette,
but freeze
in the shallows
instead.

They try to remember

for the rest of us,
but give up
and go up over the high ground,
around blind corners,
across the forest borders
without us instead.

A river's edges are nudged
a few degrees west;

The moon becomes a molten eye.

It begins that way:

A blurred, orange comet
bleats ransom and redemption
nonsensically over
your shoulder,
falling
over the miles,

and you stop to rest beneath it.

It's near Christmas, again.

In mud-caked dreams,
your unborn children
try your patience
like a knife dropped in the snow.

Sometimes, everything pinions.

Everything is changed.

A few people see it, or understand.

They nearly make it to shore.