It can’t be seen,
the terror of every morning,
amidst the sneezes and swirling snow,
the forgotten folders and everything.

It can’t be seen,
this mayhem, an extra crackle
in already staticky air.

We live in a gingerbread house
or a house made of sand. I see
its cracks. I see its seams.
What keeps it together is

something I can’t see.