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.