By the skin of my teeth,
by a hair’s breath,
by the thousand fervent prayers my mother told me counted.
Living, being, not going into a homicidal rage.
Always just close,
A ripple under the skin,
a bump below the surface.
I will not be a wave, I will not be a wave.
By an unholy, tolerant, secular, indifferent grace,
This boring, tired calm,
this quiet, snobbish vacuum.
Krakatoa in the good old days.