In this corner, seated family eating cereal.
In the other, a woman holding the phone to her ear with
her left shoulder.
No voodoo doll causality. No telemetry by which to distinguish
ripple from thrown rock.
In April, a volcano bellows smoke.
In New Mexico, also in April, it snows.
Take up any two thoughts,
and hold them both in frame.
She falls down. He opens the saxophone case,
fingers grey with fifteen-year-old dust.
An elevator dings but stays shut.
Someone buys an umbrella.
Call it synchronized if you wish,
that any happening has a million unidentical siblings.
Just this and also this.