(http://www.thermador.com/art/locator)
Saturday my best friend Brad and I went to dinner with an old friend of mine, my touchstone. We ate bread and fish and drank silvery wine and went to his house and looked at paintings and listened to jazz. And somehow we got to talking about signs, me and these two people who keep me alive. The poet does not believe in them. I live by them, which, I admit, is a haphazard way to live.
It's not very organized, my world-view. But still. Things keep coming. The fireworks, the fish in the river, the frogs. How can they not be aligned? I try to tie them together.
Why then was I wearing the bracelet you gave when I saw you? Orange, wooden beads. For luck, you'd said.
Why did I find it twice?
Why, driving, did I look to the right and see, painted on a truck, the name of that town?
And we heard a sound from the mountains.
And the snow came just then.
My friend Amaud, in a thick leather chair, said to me at a different time, about a different thing: It's not an accident. Nothing is.
Go. Go on world. Send me lightning and dead birds and wind-rattled branches and raccoons in cemeteries. Send me a letter scarred in his hair.
I'll take them in. I'll make my own meaning.