Anchoring Heuristic

Spellbinding
conversations always carry
an undertone of finality, now
that it is clear to me
what the most magnificent
of exchanges can hide:

hopelessness
strong enough to turn
the whole thing inside out
at the drop of a hat, words
that felt once big enough
to hold the universe

twisted
into small, unyielding
shards meant to puncture
the foundations that let
those dreams grow at all,
never forgiving them for that.

Syllables
like marbles I mistake
for planets, anchoring
and adjustment heuristic
gone haywire, I rush
to believe in

something
heaven knows must collapse.
Is this what trust is? Drifting
from our moorings, from
perspective and forgetting
how wonder can turn in on itself?

/cristina

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