Of universe I know book’s breadth,
fissured by design or accident, cleanly
broken down the spine. Something
resembling sorry sews it tight.
Orchestra I call it—hope it so—
Zeppo to the other Marxs.
Elan carries me through the bride,
allowing for a march’s turbulence.
Notice also this influx of the marital
domestica, the trappings of huswifery
blinging from my skirts. No accident
lines my pockets or stitched them shut.
Allowing for the universe, I designed
zillions of these accidents to litter
each path I might take, tripping forward.