Quake Poem by Hans Ostrom

The birds knew. They heard Earth
thinking about a shift, a shrug. They
repaired to the stability of air, where
they might rest assured on fine
individual engineering. On alleged

ground, in our immense, inappropriate
structures, we were by comparison large
in our self-regard though miniature in
our soon-to-be shaking skin. Solid ground

is a compelling myth. Our material
condition is liquid when it isn’t vaporous
or vacuous. Our feet knew. They felt

Earth pass under us in squirts and waves.
The planet is pieces and paste. It is going

somewhere, we’re on it, and that is that.