From the Fishouse

Except in dream, where the torn
ligature between cause and effect protects us.
The body falls into darkness and the darkness
pitched in time. Time, the up-rushing ground
we never hit, but instead fly over or wake.
Every day dire with consequence enough;
blame and decay are not freak visits,
like May snow or dog bite, but raw
eventualities no number of hedged bets
prevents. Though beyond us to predict
exactly when, at least we know for what.