news of the night:
they're madly searching for fresh acts of God
(or quantum luck) on second floors,
scattered tumblers in trailer parks.
nevermind the great uncertainty
leaning down your neckline,
the untelling weight-hood and period-luminosities
they teach you to ignore in school
until your comfortable derangement
can be seen from a dozen parsecs away
as one more animal armageddon.
why don't our hands,
against our weather?