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Fate
Edward Munch.
Death in the Sickroom, 1893
When you sense
that your maker
is just an careless cough away
a handshake that shouldn’t have been
a sneeze that should have gone
into a sleeve.
Then you know
that you are in a maelstrom
an abyss that goes forever down
that you face a winter
that might snow forever
a year without seasons.
Is there a reprieve
from this derive
is there a place
in which we can huddle
and try to sort out this trouble
before it sweeps us all away?
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