a tilting of air

Some thoughts are meant to go
the way of the mayfly — to live
and die in a day;
it’s not much time, a day,
but such is the breath of a thought.

Transitory notions — mouthless, titanic
swarms from a mighty launch,
a sea of cellophane sails rising
and falling in reflective flight — a dance
before the end of temporal things.

Thoughts-to-come are tucked
in a murky cradle while, somewhere
the temporal tumbles — floats
in a hollow carcass, piling
on cracked concrete below flickering lights.