Quake

Chance had brought the six of us close 
for a few weeks, close enough for liking, 
unstrangered, and would scatter us the next day 
across the wintering continent, 
zipping up our hearts and waving 
with gloves on, breath fogging our last sight 
of each other as we hoisted 
luggage jammed with limitations 
(Patrick would live through July)  
into the trunks of idling cars. 
Perhaps it was for this reason, 
our sense of precarious communion, 
that when the table began to shake 
we all instinctively reached out 
and held hands, the way they do 
at séances, and laughed out 
an incongruous, sweet laughter 
like children getting away with something, 
our fear muted by our distance 
from the fault that, once roused, 
had shifted everything in the world 
but only slightly, an inaudible rumble 
stirring the guts of our existence 
as it tickled the candle flames,   
spangled the moment of wine 
balanced on its fragile stem, 
jigged the chairs and table legs, 
and tingled through bootsoles. 
Shock and odd pleasure lay in 
how sharply and simultaneously 
and consciously aware we were 
of our heightened awareness 
of each other and our transience. 
For once there was no distraction: 
no lust; no self-conscious adrenalin; 
none of the spiritual glassiness  
that settles over assembled mourners. 
This was just the grave world 
catching us off guard— 
grabbing each of us by both shoulders 
and giving a shake, saying only 
Here. Now. Take a good look.