Something That Has a Pattern

Derangement. To break the line,
Break the ring, break the circle.
Imagine deranged ranges,

Mountains broken loose from shelves,
Marching away by themselves,
Imagine what that would do.

Mountains are barely stubble
On the shining countenance
Of this inventive planet,

Ancestor of ancestry,
Recycler of lives through deaths,
But imagine them deranged.

Something that has a pattern
Would be broken in a way
No one ever predicted.

At the edge of this plateau,
The mind strains to picture it—
Not lava or an earthquake,

No shifting tectonic plates,
No breakup within the crust—
Just this fine row of mountains

In stone curves ringing canyons
Rising from their foundations,
Deranged and striding away.