Had it not happened
that I turned to the side,
the bullet would have pierced
the back of my head.
I close the door behind Greta.
The cauliflower
wrapped in newspaper under
her arm, she waves to me.
Her cauliflower-styled hair,
pinned high, wavers.
I turn the key in the lock,
flip the small cardboard sign
so that the side reading
be right back faces outward,
the word
open now turned in.
Had it not happened
that I turned to the side,
the bullet would have pierced
the back of my head.
I follow myself, watching
myself in thought,
wondering how to describe
the perspective from
which I observe myself.
At the same time,
the rotations have sufficed—
the first and the second—
turning toward her,
then standing upright,
my turning of the small sign,
cut from thick cardboard—
be right back.
Evidently, each turn
gives rise to its own reality—
in turning on,
turning over, turning toward,
being turned away
by the turn,
turned over and turned toward—
had it not happened
that I turned to the side,
the bullet would have pierced
the back of my head.
As it is,
it only grazes the bridge
of my nose,
tears the skin—
the wound barely bleeds.
The passage
from the bridge of the nose
to the forehead
is only lightly supplied
with blood.
