and how easily,
how unwittingly
we might break
each possible future
in favor of another
and how, looking back,
in place of what 
had been
possible 
we would see
only that
thin contingent line,
what happened, 
rising
through the vast and empty darkness
of what did not.


jessie greengrass,
sight



(this is prose, yet i want to set it before me 
as a poem, 
as it was 
a poem that needed 
to be prose, as i want to make 
a photograph 
to see it in the time it was
continuous
flowing by us now)