Convergence, It Says

We go to a paint class. It hurts our faces but we finish. Afterwards
we are lifted, the world changed. We go

to the gymnasium and it prompts
a book on grief that was not here before but was due

to come, as the universe has altered (we stepped
into art shows and out into a new shape) we

made the book come to the kitchen—we are only half lucid—
joints joining that did not seem

ever, maybe forced, her old face passing by, living
as a mark on paper in between, doing

the strokes, not always smooth that book
looks to be crucial—how do I know? I feel

convergence, it says: no idea where it’s from.
Ah, the old face has changed, so here we go:

I can see a war. No no no no no! We can.