History drew me. It had a face.
Pale and angular with a curved beak.
Someone from the gallery of photographs
lining my grandfather's hall.
To begin with, I wanted to talk to him.
The corner table received us, two large animals
in a dinner booth composed entirely of light,
the Jack of Blue Matter,
sitting across from me in the unknown air.
Long after dark we walked south along the avenue
like a couple of drunks.
Once every few months we met for dinner.
Then the long quiet interval of years
between us. Improbable.