They spread forever,
don’t they?
Like me and you.
We riff on our
smiles,
silent jazz in
the café
at the end of
the block
where we come
and go
every day
like wavelets,
forever
disturbing
the smooth
surface
of the morning
with a music
only we can
understand.
At outdoor
tables,
conversation leaks
into the street,
gets carried
away
by cabs or
spread
by the dapper
man
with the cane
who taps a
ripple
every few feet
or so.
It never settles
into entropy
or a single sip
or Chardonnay,
at least from I
can see.
Two lovers kiss,
and the meeting
of lips
becomes children
and pain and
years
of calendar
pages
ripped
from the pantry
door,
the brood taking
their parents’
momentary bliss
down ruts and
roads
and highways
past New Years
Eve
and a new
millennium,
the kiss far
behind.
Frankly, such
staying power
boggles the
mind.
A stone falls
or is tossed,
and the fluid
moves
in circles,
concentric,
like God,
a petal in the
pond
rising like the
heave
of a white bosom
that does not
want
to end a dream
or the act of
love.
I’m not sure
who dropped it
or how the
motion
began.
These ripples,
kinetic prophets
of things to
come,
perpetuating
like ever-branching
fractals in
snow,
find the ocean,
or so it is
written,
where his
kingdom,
it is said,
goes on and on.
~William Hammett
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