I think (sometimes) time
does work backwards;
jigsaw-puzzling,
fragment-spinning
unlikelihoods, vase shards
self-assembling ,
plastering smiles,
erasing facial scars.
Stands as never-ever-was,
palmed happenstance,
three Norns looking
for missing pieces
under a sofa,
scandalously dirty there,
lovers kissing under a moon.
Poetry does it all the time,
routinely performing miracles;
but why (do fools fall in love)
and why, we ask ...
but sleep for answers,
one day may
deceive into
fulfillment.
...........................
W.C.W. The Poem as a Field of Action. 'We’re not putting the rose, the single rose, in the little glass vase in the window—we’re digging a hole for the tree—and as we dig have disappeared in it.'