Michael Berry

I am not a beast without his marks, though infinite 
is the ignorance that allows my name to escape. 
I am the pole you split on your walk through the park, and 
I am the ladder you fumbled under without thought.  
A little salt tossed over the shoulder would never  
keep me at bay or drive me away, because truly 
I am the entire shaker you could not keep upright. 
The umbrella opened indoors, the one forgotten 
with forecasts of furious clouds, can rest well knowing 
I am the raven perched just above your chamber door. 
I am the cats’ glaring—jet-black and crossed long ago, 
a mirror, waiting for you in a thousand pieces. 
I am entropy, chaos, and what your logic failed.