the bluebird -&- the wasp

First there is the shudder,
the tremble, like the rustling of
the floorboards when the train races by.

Your room faces the south side of the district.
When the carriages roll past, the sunset
glints off the metal frame, glaring
through the glass.

You watch it shrink in the distance,
adding a flourish to your needlepoint.

You hardly spare it a glance
as you chop onions into chunks.

Today, though,
there is no train.
You are not home.
You are somewhere else,
where the work is neat
and ordered
and tidy
and timely,

and lonely,

so lonely,

But the routine
saves you from
dying right there.

Noises
and sounds
and movement
and voices--

You are not used
to a morning so loud.

So you take a step back
as the room starts to shake,

And you turn around quick,
and pace towards the quake,

But you cannot run away.
It takes just a moment,
a second to wait,--

Then you're falling through time,
you're falling through space.