I stand at the edge of the world.
You may think the world is round:
“What comes around, goes around.”
But in these last days, sinkholes
of horror have opened up.
High tides, high winds
fill the hole
until water spills out
racing across empty spaces
in my heart,
rolling across my flat, flat earth
stopping just before the fires,
just before spilling over the edge
where I stand, sweating in the
heat of the flames.
Other winds whip up the fire
exploding sparks that devour
greenery, turning air into hellish heat.
Flames race to where the water stops
threatening to dry up what hides in
those black holes.
Earth shakes with anger
at their efforts
spewing lava as argument.
How long will it stay
together? If it were round
it would burst apart
So I remain, alone
wondering if
all is truly flat while
listening to the wind
whose bluster tells me
he is sure that he,
alone, is in command.
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