No stretch of imagination yields
remembrance of having asked for
this particular life in time
or even life in general. Old Plato
might insist it was a previous request,
a decision taken earlier, elsewhere:
to come in January, for example,
unto certain parents, to come
for example, to Boston, Massachusetts.
Angels might decide to do that
and have no need to make sense of it.
They come but never stay.
This body, though, this hand
turning a calendar page
feels more done-unto than doing
it grasps the ordered days
as spent paper while the mind
absents itself, wandering
back to the anticipation of delight,
past delight itself,
seeking the original plan.