As in drill rehearsal for an embattled place,
we call in mirrored breadths an inventory, mime
in duet a list, a ruck sack check, that makes you gaze
at your wrist, check watch, check pockets, jingle car keys
chin-high like copper chimes, or like the bells
that focus our attention in the Mass, a summoning
that at the altar an ordained event—body as host,
wine that was blood—is happening and is past.
We are older now; this is what this is. A pause midstride
before leaving one another, before leaving the house;
a wave from the drive the way angels—disquieted—
watch, then catch us by the hair. They hear our doubts.
Leaving, returning, for them: deliverance, reunion
with the stars, a coming home. For us, chance, a constant drum.