more, much more than this


i admit i am
essentially
ridiculous, and quite fragile
racked with sneezes
accident-prone
blunt and indiscreet,
overly-sensual and
grown squashy around the middle,
but still eating cinnamon ice cream
i'm the also one with my face pressed close to the dirty window of the N train
absolute in the belief that
if i stare long enough at the steel web of the brooklyn bridge
over the dark gray waves of the east river
cutting the low clouds and fogs
piled there like the painted baseboards of the sky
then i
will succeed in pulling it all in,
all that mad, damask beauty,
wicking into me and filling up my vague spaces
with crystalline matrices
a silent education in the secret persistent pattern of the world
which i want so much to percieve