One day,
in a press of bodies
in the outdoor stalls of Seattle,
the jewel to the south, Mount Rainier,
would perhaps I thought,
to no purpose,
destroy this city,
pick all its flowers,
muddy the sound,
and chase the whales away.
It was to no purpose
I saw a face look at me
in the crowd,
and feeling pass between us,
between meteors,
cosmic bodies,
shooting stars.
I looked back,
and she looked after,
and it was to no purpose.
As if a book opened its pages,
and you read a story three quarters in,
or three quarters over,
a paragraph and you close it,
not having time to know the beginning
or see the end,
for it served no purpose,
except a crack in your heart was opened,
and you never forgot,
or gave away a word of what you remember.
I look at a map of Seattle,
and the sun is full of gold,
and the person I saw,
still wanders through the market,
looking back,
and the book is somewhere on my shelf,
and I can’t recall the title,
or the number of the page
fortuitously opened,
but I could just let it fall,
someday,
and continue reading.
But the purpose of all this,
or the lack of purpose,
is like a jewel
you cherish with remembrance.
It destroys no cities.
It stays where you put it,
in your heart,
the back of a drawer,
wherever, if it’s lost,
you can find it.