Symmetry

There’s a balance in all this
somehow
me on the right
you, the left
inhaling and exhaling
we looked through the same window:

You watched the rush of oncoming
traffic, faces,
the little stubborn islands of tree
and twice-painted rock—
symbols scrawled wildly on granite.

I watched those names blur
into a second image:
a ghostly reflection
of scenery in retrograde—
the faces now turned away,
the names written backward

Somewhere between approach and retreat
we sat in our ordinary bus
in our moving fulcrum
eternally suspended
between times and places

At a corner restaurant
from opposite sides of a table
we sent out our lines of speech
and they met—
guilt and acceptance—
and from this plane
two waitresses
diverged
along parabolic paths
in perfect symmetry
I turned automatically
expecting to see that image of myself
but was fooled