Kevin Craft

A meal worm makes
a tinfoil moth.
People move through the sky
with electrifying calm.
Some of us stay up
all night unpacking crates
in supermarkets.
For others sleep
is the only exercise.
My knees ache
when I bend them past
the bending point.
My elbows cross
to the other side of the room.
Who can say how a funnel
cloud forms, or cakes,
or vacuums up
a choreless childhood day?
Who's that coming down the pike
with an ancient telegram?
The flagstones hardly
lift their heads.
Fluttering is for old flames.