These days I often think of that William Carlos Williams poem:⠀
⠀
so much depends⠀
upon⠀
⠀
a red wheel⠀
barrow⠀
⠀
glazed with rain⠀
water⠀
⠀
beside the white⠀
chickens⠀
⠀
So much depends upon the loose cigarette I’ve just discovered between Bogart’s thumb and forefinger. Will it rise mouthwards to mirror Gloria’s in an ecstasy of symmetry? Or will it simply be as it is? I’m rooting for the ecstasy, but like a poem outside time, so much can only depend upon This, not Next. ⠀