Silily

What would a rupture, an actual
Rupture, however tiny, a rip,
A little tear in the way things go,

The way things are, actually portend?
You think of miracles all the time.
It’s your gift and your curse you can know

The ruthlessness of how things happen
And that the ruthlessness holds your ruth,
Your sense of things as if otherwise.

You can fiddle with your memories,
Break them into crumbles, rearrange
The crumbles into impossible

Things that you know are impossible.
You’re all Frankensteins, and we in words
Your elan vital, episodic

Memory wired through an abacus.
But you can’t really change things, can you?
There’s no unraveling gravity,

No calling back the arrow of time,
No matter how many tales you tell,
No matter how easily you dream.

If there were only, only once, one
Tiny rip in the whole of the waves. . . .
Then what would happen? What happened then?