One day I was blown into the East River and carried all the way to
what must have been Cancun—it was so sunny when they pulled me
from the rushes.

One day a sesame seed popped out from between my molars and
finally I stopped stuttering.

One day I fished a diamond out of my margarita—it was the size
of a baby’s fist.

One day one hundred and forty-eight tornados touched down in the marina.

One day I borrowed a low-slung bus and for once drove myself
to the fiesta.

One day they blindfolded me but let me hold a heavy stick.

One day we asked ourselves Could there ever be anyplace better
and Are these all from the same mosquito.

One day books fell open at the places I needed. All afternoon I stood
with a dictionary in the local library, charging a fortune.

One day a wandering baby abandoned his pacifier and latched onto
a button of my coat.

One day we watched the reeds fold and unfold as a tiny hurricane swept
across the river.

One day we left the baby with Ramona, Samaritan, possessor of a mysterious bruise.

One day seemed to be the reenactment of a famous other, and everyone’s outfits
were jangling.

One day we took off into the beer-colored sky. A far-off forest was burning.

Graeme Bezanson