Wind,
the push and close of the door,
trampling feet, the walker thinking of being elsewhere
…all utterly useless
to move a scrap of tiny paper on my doorstep saying “i came for San Fran”
it has no origin, like it emerged whole from the landscape of badly maintained hall tiles
and disrupted me for weeks, till I brought it in and we forgot about the note: the paper and I did; i assume i threw it away; thought nothing of process or meaning.
but it’s returned now, inexplicablly, in my center piece.
This is
a plan of a different kind, a god who leaves cyphers.