It doesn’t happen so you would notice,
the framework becoming the groundwork
for the next layer of destiny. The light
 
dances on the surface, but deep, where
the undertow takes hold, there is nothing
but the pull to the edge. In time our
 
sorrows become poems, paper boats for the
loved who have gone. We do not miss what is
invisible, but the scent of desire stings the
 
nostrils and waters the eyes. The voice
never comes from the emptiness of space.
It never calls to us from dusty clouds
 
creased by the wind. If only we could know
it is all according to plan, if we could know
how long the wreckage will stand.