After Margaret Atwood

Under the cracked whip of a light too insistent to be spontaneous,
this day can be left to find its own lucidities,
but in certain rooms,
certain corners take on a rigorous inner order.
It is a delicate balancing dance with randomness and confusion.

We build such elaborate defenses
against the bicker of our sad history,
like old men with wooden jaws
preaching against the old evils.
We talk incessantly to keep each other at bay,
to keep our nebulous selves from diffusing
quietly into the night sky,
to stem the fear of emerging without meaning,
to convince ourselves this net of air
is enough to cover us in the light and the dark.