In the flapping of Borges’ pigeon wings, lodged in Gregor Samsa’s gizzard, in the cello
played during commercials for luxury sedans and the crow
clinging to the top of the telephone pole, behind a mountain’s profile,
at the bottom of my glass, wadded
in the pocket of my jeans
I am the story I am seeking.
In every face, every poem, even yours.
Yesterday, with my knees aching on the cement floor, I moved my ouiji hands
over the shelf until they snagged on a poet named Ruefle
which felt right since it was my last day at the bookstore and I was looking
for words to explain. I found
“Everything that ever happened to me
is just hanging — crushed
and sparkling — in the air,
waiting to happen to you.
Everything that ever happened to me
happened to somebody else first.
I would give you an example
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