Right now a three-year-old galumps upon the floor
above the ceiling under which your head applies itself to this. Your fingers hit and miss: not in search of poetry –
or any point at all: each joint in them would like to tap
and tease the keys in rhythms like a ragtime rainfall – Milagros
skeletally dancing up a squall. The little tyke just paused:
stopped clomping down the hall – you miss it. New York City
is a thunderball – always blasting to illicit bliss: breaking laws.
Toddlers stomp through ancient tiny rooms in small apartments –
all in thrall to something nobody can see but everybody feels.
The whole thing reels, and out of nowhere something warm
and alien appeals to your unguarded shoulder, leaning
on you, importuning you to love it. The little three-year-old
has just begun his hippo-clomping run again above it.
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