Echelons of Autism

My “level” has no number; not even a name—

Because it rises and falls; twists and turns;

and everything is contingent on the weather:

tidal surges; ocean currents; wind-shear;

thermoclines; geomagnetic meridians;

the confluence of rivers overflowing their banks.



It slides in underneath a cold front;

hitching a ride on the lake effect;

rushing uphill, madcap on a flying fog,

above gullies tumbled on their backs by the wind.



It dives down along the mirrored edge

of a temperature differential;

wearing the cold mask of a pycnocline,

below the white bellies of disinterested sharks.



It leans impassively against the tilted side

of some ancient cairn;

carrying the bag of a lost pilgrim,

beside a broken sign-post at some unfamiliar crossroads.