4:39 p.m., August 31, 2008, New York City

Fine mist of happiness –
gold silt – an entourage of tiny

sparkling particles which follow
light as if light were Apollo:

now the sun as it obliquely hits
and swallows several of the pearly

paper coins of your dried money-plant
ignites the thing to fire: soft probity,

desire – and the sweetness
of the state of mind that this

engenders: tender and replete:
like baby Mozart, chubby fingers

flick pink toes into a syncopation
as he gurgles three-part harmonies:

this infantile art with its surpassing
subtleties: this jubilant involuntary

gasp! – so cowed by the enormity
of fleetness that it breeds a brief

and bleeding sadness: makes you
wonder if this isn’t, here –

whatever gloriously else it is –
the root of human madness.


.