What is destined to burn, burns.
The rest stays solid, unmoving. The last
time he closed the door between us, the latch
rang, and I sensed for the first time myself
in relation to the room around me:
dust in the air illuminated, our favorite
record still on the turntable, diamond-tip needle
suspended, playing the room’s silence. What’s
destined to burn, burns. Dug further,
the well once more gives water.
In my daydream, a bush engulfed by flames
but not consumed. A voice asks if I want
more coffee, if I’ll be buying anything else,
and the diner forms around me. It is night,
I’m losing track of time. Across the street
the giant neon cowboy spins above the mobile
home dealer—metal frame, exaggerated
ten-gallon hat, illuminated. I have practiced
this existence: standing in a room tuning
a violin, its hollow body full of ash.