A woman suffers from motion

blindness, carbon monoxide

poisoning causes her to lose

the logic of linearity:  she sees

a red truck in the road, sees the same

 

one in front of her, watches

the taillights in the distance flicker

like fireflies from the front porch,

her life seen as a child’s poorly-

 

drawn flipbook.  We knit the narrative

of our lives from scrapbooks

of moments, as well: the first kiss,

our kindergarten class photo;

our first fight, high school prom,

 

awkward and cute in retrospect;

if it ends in marriage, high school

graduation, if divorce, the death

of a grandmother.  Without such

stories the world is a triptych, not

 

a film: a tilted pitcher, water hanging

in the air like a hummingbird,

a puddle of water around a glass,

as still as time.