happenstance

There's no use in decrying
the muffled violence of the every day,
boxes of photoframes and the marginalia
of a barely lived life,
nor the quiet, unknown way
tiny things die,
nor the short sharp knocks of
random Tuesday mornings.
don't cry foul to fate  or god--
they aren't listening.
there is no grand force wishing the world well
or damning us.

Life goes on.

Spiders still find a way
to hatch in my house at the end
of every winter.
the rivers still run,
The mail still comes,
beset by junk though it may be.
crooked creekmills somewhere
still churn for tourists.
A tectonic plate tackles
the west coast inch by inch
while reality for three children
found in a shed plummets.