I could make a religion of coincidence.

The famous book and doughnut stores
we hoped to visit: blocks apart
on the randomly chosen road.

The part I told him I once played,
Stella, the night before: scored
by the lead in the new Almodóvar.

The book my daughter
thought better of buying: abandoned,
curlcovered, on the nearby grassy hill.

I could believe in a hidden order,
a way to know I am in the right place,
a way to say, look how the world aligns
for our amusement. Stop planning. I don’t.

2012