Concrete and universal,
expectation and Anaxagoras—
who could find faith
in the providence of a drought,
which principle of the universe
can divide the afternoon infinitely?

The vase toppled from your hands,
and lacuna rescinds to cruder concavities.
That smudge on the ceiling
from an errant football pass by our son
leaves the white square above us fissured.

You search for divine thoughts elsewhere:
underneath our bed, below street lamps,
in music pages eaten by silverfish.
The stereo in the living room
whispers, “I’m the wonderful,
wonderful wizard of waltzing alone.”