Yesterday I found myself
surrounded by your photographs:
stars not spiraling, but eclipsing the sky
in time-conspired compasses.
Trees stood motionless in the foreground,
their own sense of forever embedded in silver.
I loved the walls on which these moments hung,
artfully lit, darkened by shadows
that made visible the hum from ventilation shafts.
I imagined it the sound of the universe,
as the room contains — as all rooms contain —
Your vision a kind of Lethe,
I nearly missed my appointment next door,
wading up the stairwell with cave-eyes,
emerging from, adjusting to
First world problems equaled by
first world delight:
three of us wearing purple,
as though the sisterhood had planned
a stand for solidarity.
We admired succulents,
spoke of our reluctance
to believe in ourselves as we believe in others,
in each other.
There is theory and there’s theory,
and we’ve all been told to find the matching pair
and water them, nurture them,
find ourselves in veins and skin,
thorns and petals,
find the reservoir within
and see possibility:
The moon reflected in an oil-filled puddle at dusk,
growing, trembling, hopeful.