Prologue To A Bidding Poem by Forrest Gander

Though each single life occurs
in a series of occasions
striking only by what
blurry context
precedes them
So come to know
what I should have wanted
to say—from
an internal perspective
there is no series. Only
event. Music knocks
us down. His brow
shadowing the guitar player's
accipitrine eyes. Tile roofs
glistening under rain.
On a dirt road
a resuscitative walk.
The kite hits
the copperhead. Cicadas
halt. The air blanks.
And strangers crane up
from whatever they are doing
to meet your gaze as you go past,
thinking, I am with you, I am
you.