One Fifty-seven

We were supposed to meet today
in three minutes, actually
in a garden I love.

Metaphysicists say
that we create reality, conjure it
with the thoughts and words we attach
to the images the mind generates
from desires so deep we don’t feel them;
ergo
I summoned this: an hour, an afternoon
of wondering how a vision of calm blue sea
could render a black pool
that would devour me.

Instead of riding to the garden
I float up to the sky and infinity;
I crawl into the space
between where visions emerge
and words erupt to name them;
I hover, bewitched, betwixt
the apparition and the appellation
and I wait out the eternity
of the fleeting glimpse I made
to evaporate.