Landing Here

My cream – my pleasure:
this unerring waking dream,
this treasure of a gray and windy wet
November day – persistent,
rich and fat and cold: ladling up
the Universe in soup bowls of
New York – cradling baby-hungers,

pulling them like taffy, torqued to
arabesque: each becomes
some warm unprecedented
and importunate desire – every inner
eye seeks fire – flame of answering
response – candle in a sconce
that won't blow out: this stance

embracing night erases doubt –
its glittering array, reflections bouncing
all about – the dancing light
of being – breeds new seeing –
more than absolute, and absolutely
freeing: all of this is in the air –
and I despair of naming it.

Two blissful wedded pigeons
sit not twelve feet from me, just
beyond my window pane, completely
calm. In their rapt acceptance
of existence is the balm. Heaven’s
near: leaking incrementally
in raindrops – landing here.


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