What

What starts things

are the accidents behind the eyes

touched off by, say, the missing cheekbone

of a woman who might have been beautiful

it is thinking about

your transplanted life-line going places

in someone else’s palm, or the suicidal games

your mind plays with the edge

of old wounds, or something

you couldn’t share with your lover

there are no endings

people die between birthdays and go on for years;

what stops things for a moment

are the words you’ve found for the last bit of light

you think there is