One can’t predict what happens next, yet even
chaos breeds patterns of a sort: sly singles
at the bar, nocturnal creatures stalking shadows,
cars cruising for motion’s sake. I’m speaking out
of turn again. We all are sensitive
to first impressions, but initial conditions
shift swiftly and with little impetus.
I found him digging ditches in summer heat,
and soon we’d made declarations, smiled broadly
for photographs. It wasn’t meant to be
a game, but I am strange and turbulent.
I move from this to that and this again—
always this again. Strange attractor, shifting
my gaze, on edge, plotting my next move. Movement
is a theory too – remember what the teacher
told us? Physics says we will keep moving,
though this can’t be progress. More often we
spin circles, noting views that barely change.
I want my windows to reveal the world
un-blurred, I want to understand our need
for headway, but all this motion has a way
of running things together. Who we are
has slipped from us again, slick fish refusing
stasis, our stubborn will to carry on.