Your Multiverse Has a One-Track Mind

Fate and possibility
Are equally mistaken.
There are no split decisions,

And no, it isn’t written.
There it went. There was no fork,
Except stuck in memory,

Where you can cook up more of
What was by reheating what
Was your memory of it.

If you’d chosen this or that—
And thus you change them, alter
Memories remembering

Rearranging. That’s more change.
There it went. Tonight you sit,
Let’s say beside someone’s lawn,

Listening to soft tschift-tchifft
Of the rotating sprinklers.
Say once this lawn could have been

Yours, as the child beside you,
As the poem emerging here,
As your thoughts of home. It was,

And now it’s someone else’s.
There it went. And here it is.
Possible and fated since

The moment that it happened,
The moment that it occurred
To you, hey, something happened.