Hurricane

…Nothing is where I left it. 

Somehow I never see the thing itself 

But crunch among the random shreds 

Of coiled threads, and tiny, broadcast pins 

Are scuffed about, refusing to be lifted 

To the inherent order of a shelf. 

Room after room dissolves with frail sadness 

Into madness, and the random pickle finally begins

To harden into something hefty, 

As in the smooth white curve of a breakfast bowl, half- 

Coated with December’s porridge, the cleaning 

Loses meaning and the prim necessity of bins

Is broken… Now, having lamely sifted 

Through a dozen times, I find the wilf- 

Ully woven chaos like a pool, tranquil 

Round our ankles, of the necessary things.