is this a poem

painting a room

or reading a newspaper again:

“William Hill does take bets
on The Second Coming,
(odds at 1,000:1, though
for this confirmation is needed
from the Archbishop of Canterbury)”

and is it now about
taking bets?

on a sparrow’s fall
or the chances
of being stunned
into a conjunction
of memories come again
at such long odds
curious emulsion spreading
like trees outside my mind
inside the room
on a spring day
claimed, like unlikely winnings
as a process of hope