Millions

I can’t force myself to believe in any old

almanac, that the best days for fishing

will come mid-March, that fog in January

brings a wet spring.

Most of my knowledge gets turned, or upset. Even chickens

aren’t completely flightless—they can make it

over a fence, into the low branches

of trees. In China, a man built his own dialysis machine, kept

himself alive for thirteen years.

Wolverines will rescue people from snow banks, dragging them

by their shirtsleeves to safety.

At the Maeklong Railway Market in Thailand, tourists marvel

eight times a day

at produce stalls set right on the tracks,

whole shops removed as a train barges through.

Like clockwork, the market reassembles. I always question

the most rigid convictions. I can’t trust a person

who plays the lottery, believes in planning

for luck. I think someone evil once said, a single death

is a tragedy, a million a statistic. I don’t buy into

the claptrap of despots. I want to say the word miracle somehow

without cringing, believe

types of goodness exist. Oh. It’s too easy

to trust—

the future arrives; the honeymoon happens.

The baby is born with ten fingers, ten toes.