It’s a small, in-between moment,
Many years ago now. No one
Else would remember it, no one
Who hasn’t been dead a long time.
In the dark overlooking lights
Of a provincial capital,
Smack in the middle of downtown
But in a bed chainsawed from pines,
The evening gave it one last try.
If you incline to imagine
Intention in the universe,
You could think the cosmos conspired,
Concentrated on that bedroom.
That’s a funny thing about fate
And destiny, and divine will—
You never give them any space
To be incomplete, imperfect,
To try a miracle and fail.