Fate and faith sit close together on a park bench, embracing like lovers do.
Drifting by, disbelieving, nonbeliever, I look at you--
walking the earth, running away,
as dark and easy as Orleans.
Coincidence is more convincing, simpler to swallow.
I can picture the street corner where I met you.
sidewalk sweltering in a February fever,
but I don’t remember the intersection.
A lonely church and a lonely man lie
underneath the leaves ignored by concrete.
My white dress kisses the ground
my hands shake uncontrollably when you turn around.
Beginning at the end, you look at me.
There is no such thing as meant to be,
just what is.