Missing Cause
Paul Killebrew

I was pulled

out of myself

through a leisurely

upheaval into

a dome of worry

so comprehensive

that every

splash of blue

in the air

was overlaid

with punctuation

and causality.

Facts on the floor,

an impossible less,

no answers for what

and all these

promises, these

door-knockers of rain,

this news

that gets less


all the time,

news about

living and falling

living, sweeps

of flavorful meaning

in the tournament

of night, or today

when I heard

bells outside,

a boat on the river,

some cars crocheting

the perilous

one-way streets

that rattle

the frame.

You founder

on permanence,

on necessary spaces,

empty months


through the year,

mood, eyesight, and

that which

comes into

the possession

of the mind.

You saw me—

you did—

across a crisp plane

in my decisions.

Then a hand

shot through

the grates

of your

terrifying disfigurement.