The world was at its end again.
The houses all wore hats of fire.
We couldn't find each other.

Wolves pawed clouds,
crows tunneled. Last grabbed objects,
instantly regretted, dropped,

though one child still clutched a feather
and a few things stayed unreasonably in place—
gravestones, oranges, beds.

Most of us tongued seeds, loved strangers.
Why not? Soon it would be noon forever.
We couldn't find each other.

The great toleration was finished.
The world rushed into feather, then wind.