When the wind carelessly picks up
leaves that have so diligently been raked
off the lawn— is that the breath of God,
or merely the exhalation of a less
powerful machine? When the asterisk
in the middle of a form says you
have to start all over again—
is that the voice of destiny
telling you to go home?
When the figure of brittle glass
that used to sit on the mantel
turns out to be Made in China—
will your grandmother’s ghost
mourn its desultory drift
from one yard sale to another?
It might be time to snip the strings
that fetter fact to the ideal: spores
velvet the surface of bread, and leaves
speckle with rust-colored blight. And in
the river, the wading bird has dipped its head
for more than an hour without any reward.
In response to Via Negativa: Pulling strings.