You’re often sixty seconds
Or seven words
From ever meeting them at all
Having turned twice to leave the party,
Going out of your way to observe
A lightening-struck willow
With pearly orange embers
Where everything would change,
Something calling you
To watch the gray rain,
Squint at a stained glass window
Or stand longer in the impossible
Silence of a swirling street corner,
Dizziness, longing, recognition.

They’re always coming at you
With Norman Rockwellish grins
Translating your map, showing you
Shortcuts, pointing you to home-style
Diners and souvenir shops full of stuff
You can't get anymore, book stores
For your out-of-print tendencies
In their sleepy vampire towns,
Touching your arm
To raise a vein.

But you’re in hot pursuit
Brushing sleeves with them,
Meeting their pale eyes,
X-ed out people in your address book,
Sullen photo of a long-suicide love
In your wallet,
Pulling over to watch
Their mesmeric kaleidoscope leaves,
Steely cobalt lakes and cotton candy skies,
Begging to be mercifully spilled.