Worst days tilt underfoot.
Ground and moorings sway. Tentatively
now we grasp into the fog
to ever deeper gray.
Smudged edges lose the old horizon
that so helped our keeping keeping on.
We are so rained upon.
What could the gods be thinking?
Times like this I conjure sight and sound
from wisdom old and vulgar new:
the rats are still around
which means the ship’s not sinking.