Rogue Film

A movie we’ve been watching gets up,
leaves the theater,
goes down the street for a smoke.

A building the approximate size of the screen
bursts and falls in, smolders for a while
as the movie passes by.

Once it’s gone
the building reconstitutes a few inches farther East
than it had been before.

All the deaths that resulted are voided,
but the people don’t recognize each other now,
even the ones who have worked together for many years.

Meanwhile, back at the theater,
we have barely noticed that the movie has gone.
We’ve been too busy thinking of our lives outside.

When we come out, the movie survivors
point at us, say we’re a little different.
They say we’re a few inches farther West than before

but at least they recognize us.
As for themselves, they don’t know that they’ve changed,
treat each other coldly, aren’t saying much.

The movie, by now, is on a bus for the next state
where it will perpetrate its flight and its magic on others.
We’ll issue an arrest warrant for it but it will elude capture.

It will show up on our late night television screens
and we’ll point and say, “here’s the bastard vision
that has caused all the trouble,” but no one will move

on apprehension because we have come to recognize
how much we need it and its messy path.
We wouldn’t dream of stopping it — can’t dream at all, in fact.