I wanted to be surprised.

To such a request, the world is obliging.

In just the past week, a rotund porcupine,

who seemed equally startled by me.

The man who swallowed a tiny microphone

to record the sounds of his body,

not considering beforehand how he might remove it.

A cabbage and mustard sandwich on marbled bread.

How easily the large spiders were caught with a clear plastic cup

surprised even them.

I don’t know why I was surprised every time love started or ended.

Or why each time a new fossil, Earth-like planet, or war.

Or that no one kept being there when the doorknob had clearly.

What should not have been so surprising:

my error after error, recognized when appearing on the faces of others.

What did not surprise enough:

my daily expectation that anything would continue,

and then that so much did continue, when so much did not.

Small rivulets still flowing downhill when it wasn’t raining.

A sister’s birthday.

Also, the stubborn, courteous persistence.

That even today please means please,

good morning is still understood as good morning,

and that when I wake up,

the window’s distant mountain remains a mountain,

the borrowed city around me is still a city, and standing.

Its alleys and markets, offices of dentists,

drug store, liquor store, Chevron.

Its library that charges—a happy surprise—no fine for overdue books:

Borges, Baldwin, Szymborska, Morrison, Cavafy.

—2018