Because of a chiromancer’s prophecy
and the stippled surface of time,
because I am slack-jawed,
monogamous,
a survivor of five o’clock fever,
because I knowingly confessed
I take fiction on faith.

Not on account of
or by reason why.
Not for the reason
that. Only, because.

Because reality strikes us
one hundred-fifty frames per second.
Because the fuzzy pod of milkweed
remains upright in the storm
and fireflies cast the yard
into a frenzied field of flight.

There were so many tangles
I stumbled through to get here,
for instance my love line
that a Texarkana palm reader
gently traced in three separate directions.

Because gnats whirl in a faint breeze
as geese shoot for the lake.
Because castoff elders live in their cars
and boxelder bugs
copulate backwards,
as inchworms dangle then loop.


There are a hundred ways to arrive
at the same place in this town
and still it’s possible to get lost.
Which is true of many things.

Because there’s a mottled penis
in a jar filled with alcohol
in a Mississippi courthouse.
Because the flag tacked to the door
is painted in ignorance.

Because memory’s a sinkhole
opening at the back of one’s throat.
Because what is remembered is surrendered
and the pension’s death benefit is irrevocable. Because repetition is unavoidable and failure inconceivable,
because war is continual
and life ends so quickly.