The Present Time

Gathering the rubbles of our age,
I am trying to sketch the present.

Once, as children,
we solved puzzles—
   hundreds of pieces
   clicking cleanly
   into a bright, orderly map.
Just right.

Now the pieces are off:
   rough edges,
   distorted shapes,
   colors that clash and bleed.
As if a madman,
careless and annoyed,
cut them in a fit of hatred.

The world we assemble
won’t hold.
It’s a map of wounds—
   slashed, bleeding,
   torn and violent.

The present
   is not only a moment.
It’s a dangerous demon.