Thinking Nothing of It

Syncopate your syncopes.
We all faint before the dance
Is finished. We stand

For one stunned moment
Before our falls, centering
Our attention on the dread

That will never come for us,
That will never come at all,
Like long-necked illustrations

Of characters with
Elongated skulls
Among Gorey’s doubtful halls.

Nothing ever comes for us.
Someday we’ll be caught.