Three days ago things mattered.
We wondered how many
crows gather on the church’s crenelation; how seldom
words contain the vowel formation oeu;
how gradually to stir uncooked risotto into the boiling water.
Who cares now?
By what audacity does decanted wine breathe,
or, linen covered pillows rest fluffily and unaffected?
We hear distance winds loudly agitate the water’s surface,
witness gray squirrels restlessly
dash through our gardens. Each of our feet plods
over and over after the other
in the emptiness
of dusk.  But there seems no reason for it.
It simply continues to happen.

                                                                             *Thomas Barton 1977-2019