anniversary

The winter light

makes everything look like a photo on high-contrast film stock.

It is only two years that you have been cosmically aligned,

 

at least on the human scale, 

which is neither large nor very small and

therefore physically imprecise,

even inconsequential, though these things

have enough consequence for the likes of us.

 

 

The world was carrying on. You were at home,

circling something massive and invisible,

and like the classic observer, you could not tell

whether you had passed the point of no return. 

You were sitting in a cafe, saying

the coy, earnest things girls say

when they are shopping out their vulnerability.

You were standing in an alley, beside a cemetery,

in an apartment you recognized from the movies.

 

The stream of events that brought you so far

flowed past you and slunk down the stairs.

 

Still in your black underwear you stepped 

across the landing. 

The kitchen window showed an imprint of the same illustration

etched on a copper plate on the door across the hall.  

The man with the camera. 

  

 

You look up and the sentence in the book

you are reading appears on the wall.

You have arrived at the correct place and time, 

carrying the correct book. 

The day you run out of money is the day

you get a cheque in the mail.  

You never send a grocery list. Your needs

for toothpaste and juice are telepathically

anticipated. The love you were sick for

is the health that lets you do other things.

The future you saw simply happens, no calamities,

and fate is not your jealous mother,

fate is only call and response.