Chronicle by Lillo Way

This morning a miracle of no bad news.
None of the islands in my personal archipelago
disappeared under rising water.

The house looked as it did last night
when I locked its doors and went to bed.
Embers left on the hearth went cold.

The furnace clicked and snarled
and came on. The ground did not shiver,
and nothing cracked.

Leaves fell, but not the trees.
No one telephoned to report the latest.
No friend gave birth, no relative died.

My unnewsworthy pal, rain, mizzled the city,
providing a daylong evening and the prediction
of an unremarkable night.

The moon was not blue or super,
not wolf, worm, or harvest. In fact,
the moon never appeared at all.

As I put this journal to bed, I offer you
a bland broadsheet—the monitor,
the observer, the plain dealer, the record.

— from Juniper Volume 6, Issue 3