At that critical moment, she whispered later, the panic
   of absolute doubt breathed on her left breast
While he was touching her right: what if this light reflected

Heraclitean, for instance: the world as a gaseous
Shimmer, like afterburner fumes in the oily night sky
Outside Carbondale, where lovers pass through the flux

In the 7-11 parking lot, white boys are terrorized
By a Lincoln stereo punching out 98-decibel jazz. The scene
Reminds them unconsciously of high-art cinema shot

After the D&C, she stood waiting for a taxi
In the clinic awning’s shade. It was afternoon in her
Comfortable little city, early rush hour. She could hear

That is enough for a life to do. But a poem
Is so much less—a poem is even smaller
Than a fraction of a breath, than a momentary gleam

They are not, as you might suppose, modelled on maple
          leaves

But such as it is, I have wanted it to be
Part of everything: tiny, but indispensable.