It Could Happen

One person’s tomorrow
is another’s yesterday. I could

be another Janus
unable to decide. But
I’d rather be

the seam where it all spills
into now.

Steer Here

They say be
in the moment.
I say I want to be 

in that moment—that night
three summers ago
on a boat as it changes 

its course beneath the Brooklyn Bridge.
Pause into slow turning, live
guitars propel the motion. 

Or that moment after
the boat has docked
on the bank of the Cuyahoga,

the sound of guitars
still rings
in my ears—lips 

on mine before I know
what or who 

is happening. But not that
moment followed by the next
of seemingly unending sea 

sickness on a ferry
as it rocks across
the Aegean. And not that one still 

to come that I cannot
fathom. How do I become
willing to let go of the old rail 

to recognize when another exalted one
might strike? This question hangs
on tight.

Early Sunday Morning

She walks deserted streets. Not the real
you, but one
she’s been fabricating 

with rope, leftover images
from an old black-and-white
film. She believes in 

rewind, fast forward,
long pauses. The sun
reveals gray 

in all its shades—romance
along a wave length,
a particle spinning 

and at rest. 

She has no way
of knowing where you are,
what you might be 

doing in this moment.
Only hopes
you’re in it, 

touching something
more real than this
creation that dissolves 

under the light.