Something pulls the wool of sky
over the upturned eye.

Its low gray government contains
maybe one sheathed brain’s

mirthless, scrutinizing gaze
ill disguised as haze.

Muttering, busy behind its blind,
something scans our kind

but lets us go on ignorant
in edgy wonderment

of what thunder is anticipating
without detonating,

and whether it is any blessing
thus to be kept guessing.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 26 Number 1, on page 28
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