Sinkholes

News that the earth has opened again
          And swallowed someone's Buick
Pleases us, proves there is no terra
          Firma, not in karst country;
The day gains a sexy patina
          Of danger. That's why Chicken
Little tells those tales about the sky,

          Why we love storms and Hitchcock:
We want to know a tame sidewalk could
          Morph and swallow us alive.
Sinkholes, at least when the ulcer's fresh
          (When the astonished traffic
Balks, or when boles lie like the pillars
          Of a sacked temple, forestall

All the seize-the-day saws, and even
          Healed—calm and green as a pond
And full of bathers—they can arouse
          Small frissons: look at them as
Great cupolas inverted, thick shafts
          Of implacable darkness
Rising from each buried oculus.

Copyright © 2005 Geoffrey Brock All rights reserved
from Weighing Light
Ivan R. Dee, Publisher
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission