Two lines
intertwined
on a page. It’s not
DNA, not the twirl
of smoke
from the end
of the cigarette; rather
it is the illogical branch
of a tree that grows down
in a swoop when all others
grow up; it’s the truck
making graceful, foolish loops
across the road
while trying to reverse itself;
it is grand scheme
crossed with detail. It’s
the way the day shapes itself;
one thing meeting another, lessons
sliding into examples, a man
being accosted by a moment
of woman and woman of man, face
seeing a face and knowing
at once the dearness of recognition
without being able to say
where that face was seen before.
Afternoons watching schoolkids
lead back to the Roman Empire.
One loose pitbull opens a memory
of Thanksgiving and slipping
food under the table to the poodle
who was part of the family
but today was uninvited
guest to be pitied.
Two lines
drawn to intersect on a vellum page —
but if the pen could speak
it would tell nothing helpful.
The pen draws, and
the body understands
how the blood
flowing through its braided capillaries
shows how one thing leads to another,
even if it cannot be explained
at a given moment.
Dark Matter 