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.