A dangerous time: these hours in the night.
In the maple outside
paired crows 

squawk through

rain-wracked sky a bit frayed
at the edges then

batten down the hatches 
and keep going.

In our apartment, the cat 
staggers loose circles 

on the living

room rug. Head off-
kilter, eyes shaking like marbles. 

Body pitched over as if on deck.

Then crouched

in the corner. We watch
shaken from sleep

by the crash of the falling.
We’ve called for help.

Minutes pass and then some.

Was it the blue-tailed lizard?
The chips of paint?

The meeting of skull with floorboards?

The phone says disorder
says wait. 

This is ataxia. This is nystagmus.

The sky’s clouds 
are God’s fingers. Like gray logs. 

The light flank of morning
showing through.

I can’t tell the difference between desire and design.

The lake distinct and glass-faced.

Did the rain intend
this blind beating of leaves?

morning, wind-headed sky riddling 

the screen. Off in the distance, zoobirds
mumble and disperse.

You whisper There is
a change.
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