he lifts the rack gingerly,
with both hands, and grins.
"your break."
she leans over the baize,
reflected green tinging her chin. yeah,
that's what he was looking at.

she connects the dots.
tick, Tock,
and a galaxy is born, its stars
neatly numbered 1 through 15
and a moon. nothing sinks
so he leans low, eyeing the line
then checking it with the cue stick
to be sure. or to impress her.

calls it
nine ball, corner pocket

any scattering of small objects
on an implied plane, like
a pocketful of coins lost in grass,
dandelion fluff adrift on her breath,
wasp guts on a windshield,
the contents of a gumball machine,
cat hair on his favourite sweater, or
the freckles on her back

countless examples, which perhaps
explains the vastness of the universe

or at the very least
why he can't find his keys.

later,
"no, a little lower. lower. there."
Click
and the picture is taken. look,
it looks like he's holding the Eiffel Tower
on his outstretched palm.

the promenade is milling
with tourists. she notices
two people who seem poised to embrace
but they brush past each other,
suddenly becoming strangers

any trick of perspective,
any map or photograph

anything that is only there
when you are here, like

sunrise cresting the windowsill,
his pulse on her lips when she kisses his wrist,
the sound of a tree falling in a forest, or
a lunar eclipse

which might explain
the inscrutability of the universe,

or at the very least why her eyes
are as wide, as liquid, as sequined blue
as a planet seen from the moon