The fabricator of fiascos,
Like the bird that breaks the window
With its insistent, suicidal streak.
Like the sudden sweep into traffic
Or over the cliff
With monumental eyes
And wide disregard.
Like all of these things, you are feckless
And the bounty of life is lost on you.
The providence of navigators,
Has no power over your compass.
The inky fury of your forays
Is the story of a burdened vessel
That forfeits the privilege of passage
To a shrill, shirking death.
I am the spirit of calamity
And I come in red bursts of pity
That clot the eyes
And pierce my swollen tongue.
I live in your glittering fictions,
In your vivid proximity,
And will take you when you are young.