Sometimes you know a person’s story,
or a piece of it, one sliver of the muscle
examined for its striations and color.
Sometimes you think of your own story
and it is both familiar and not,
and you must question the details,
the slant, the cant of its little roof and shutters
the home of what you know about yourself,
your people, the city, the schools
and afternoons that made you.
There is someone in your field of vision.
Maybe it is you.
Light spills down on the diorama
and something has brought you here to witness
the holy moment, any moment,
with the gulls overhead like sticks
tossed suddenly skyward and crossing
beneath the biting blueness of the sky.
from Still Life with Judas and Lightning (Airlie Press 2013)
