Minute Necessities

You wake up thinking,
from a dream,
that you’re a breath
inside the billows of a sail –
whose galleon proceeds
with you as one
of its minute necessities:

a gust of air, a bit of atmosphere
with push: a whoosh whose
larger motive is unknown
except to that prevailing sail,
which isn’t telling.
Making coffee makes you
tug the swelling trope back

to the land, to New York City,
that strange envelope
of blare and glare in whose
complexities you are a puff
of air as well: a little tease –
less measurably driven
but with work to do:

become a leaping sneaky lemur:
wide eyes – glimmers
of surprise and internecine plan.
Time to turn back
into man: the new year’s sun
erupts: New York’s
about to try to beat it up.

.