Destiny
At Christmas, in the corner of my home
I read a borrowed book of poems
Turning it over leaf by leaf
To expose the unread one beneath.
Contrasting words of black on white
Arrayed in rows from left to right
Each word in its proper place
Patterning a page of space.
And making on the whole, it seemed,
A small meticulous machine
That re-creates the poet's line of thought
As each sequential word is briefly caught
By moving eyes
Just like the separate instants of our lives
Destined to play the great composer's song
But only once.