Saturday, January 26, 2013


The ease with which we imagine
The impossible, the obsession
With which we imagine

The improbable, and the imprecision
With which we imagine the actual
Are all right here. I could be wrong

There, but I'm sure I'm right here.
A couple years back on a black night
On black ice, I spun my small crèche

Of old father, young mother, and newborn
Around and back-end first off
Remote interstate into deep snowbank.

That moment when imagination
Falls behind the speed of current events,
And we sail into what we feel

Is highly unlikely to go well but coming
Too quickly to picture or discuss
Is also, actually, always here, right here.

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