These Rapids of a Happiness

It’s strange to feel these rapids of a happiness
run so indifferently, abundantly – so dark
and deep beneath the surface of the waking,

sleeping creature that I am – bewildered fragile
New York man – weathering innumerable seasons
like a vine-y plant against the odds – attenuated

body creeping over and around the city’s shoddy
barren skin: fodder for an unconsidered future:
far above a flowing and obliviously grand

centrality which doesn’t seem to have to do with
any rue, accoutrement of doubt, misapprehension,
bout with any of the slew of inner angry bruisers

who compete to see who can establish new
dominion in the rings of me – be the winning ruse
or the humiliated loser in this ambiguity I call

my life: I’m like the thinnest slice of a translucence
next to this sweet secret well – this buried gushing
sluicing freshet rushing to some unknown sea.

Today the light and air swell with a feathered
misty inconsistency: creamy green, be-pearled.
I cannot tell you why I like this world.

.