Villanelle

A spirit moves behind the drapes 

of the terminal cascade. Shark fins

knife the cataract and pleasing shapes
pass the time devouring white grapes.

The hours hold a regiment of gins

made of August rain; the drapes
conceal a twisting shape
bunched up in curtain grins. Jesus Christ. Our damn fates.

The flames of automatic weapons leap

up. Imagination thins—
a war-whipped sea behind the drapes.
The geometry of conversation apes

illusions of the truth again.

Though scattered thoughts may constellate
the fear of navigating deadly capes
can spell disorder as the shadows drape
down like a burning buccaneer
with eyes to the abyss
forever gapes. Forever.