I was born on the day he first looked
at her in that pretentious coffee shop—
The cup in his hand fell to the ground and his watch
unwound around his wrist and his heart stopped
beating and this fleeting feeling found
his universe unraveled
into silvery strands and wires.

At first, it was the things no one would
miss, like cancer and
HIV and that little opera house in North Minneapolis,
but then the water molecules
dehydrated and the
Louvre stopped existing, and
where else would we go to see fine art?
Velocity vanished and Saturn and her rings were just
things of the past, and soon too the past
stopped being anything at all and
through the nothing there was silver, silver,
snaking all around the empty blackness.

So she picked up his threadbare cosmos,
the nothingness that was now almost
into galaxies light years away.
She grabbed the strands and wove the world
back together with her strong arms.
Working the loom with celestial ease,
She repainted the Mona Lisa and strung up a
Moon, filled the lakes and oceans, and created reality
television. From her fingers flowed
gravity and then bacteria and calculus, and suddenly
He wasn't floating in nothingness anymore.
She sowed the crops and sewed the
embroidery on the dresses at Macy's,
the red of her painted nails staining the earth
forever with my image.

And the world was changed, but you knew that.