.

the corners are round and cold
like piano keys and when pushed
against skin, tumble over each other
in rolling clicks held from the end
of a taut arm lifted high by an upward
palm. clutching coincidence, they flip
what-ifs and twist the mind with clenched
tension. numbers spill down the length
of each outstretched finger, weighted
and wheeling the air like a gull tossed
headlong into wind that drops and lets
go. bouncing dice in a random drumbeat
of unexplainable compulsions, they
ricochet off a glass tabletop towards
the self-revealing question, 'why-me?'
until fingers finally relax on a table.

if not by chance then by definition,
if god is everything, if god decides
the fate of each game and not me,
and if I win, is it not because god
has chosen it? me? ... "why me?" is
a gambler`s question and the hand
of a player bounces numbers off
glass as easily as reflections off
art, deliberately crashing headlong
into uncertainty.

she was reflected in glass on an art
gallery wall. that is how I first saw
her; taller than me, blonde with black
leather boots that rose to her knees,
pale skin. I watched her image merge
with a large charcoal drawing as she
approached from behind and stopped
just short of my left shoulder. for
a stranger, she stood a little too
close, admiring the same piece as
me. but the longer she stayed, the
more acutely I noticed her breathing
and whenever I moved to the side,
she shifted her weight towards mine
although our eyes never met. the
room was divided into rows of tall
panels and each panel held a series
of drawings-under-glass. dynamic
lines, soft blacks, subtle tones.
each time I turned a corner, she
followed and this is how we
silently viewed the exhibition
together, shoulder to shoulder,
never speaking. the last piece
was framed by text, hung facing
a window ledge and was separated
from the rest of the room. the
privacy of its surrounding space
and the seduction of sunlight
was why I sat down to write,
deliberately taking my time to
find a pen and to immerse myself
in ideas allthewhile wondering
what she would do next; she stopped
and posed somewhat awkwardly in
front of the same drawing, almost
lost her balance when she turned
to face it (which utterly endeared
me to her), then slowly walked
in front of me with eyes fixed
on the art but clearly attending
to something peripheral. she
paused, legs rather close to my
right shoulder, and waited until
I stood up. with nothing to say
but not wanting to leave, we both
circled the exhibition again,
reviewed it a second time while
moving in opposite directions,
this time chosing different pieces
to re-examine but always aware
of the other's location. before
she left, she signed her name in
the guestbook. ana. her name was
ana and that is all I ever learned
about her. we never met again but
years later, I attended another
gallery exhibition by the same
artist and something in his black
line and soft tone reminded me
of her.


have you ever been drawn to a path
that contradicts everything you are?
this and other unexplainable connections
to strangers?

it snowed a little today
and I imagined a beach with warm sand.