From an overpass in Jersey tonight, Whitman’s Manhattan to the eye Is a galaxy of neon, glittering and Beckoning low on the horizon.

The solitary heart, ignored all week In the bath of work, starts up its Broadcast, its barely audible beep beep, As its cynical friend, the hard mind,

Given to hard living and hard drinking, Mutters in irritation, “Bloody idiot, doesn’t He know that to be heard in that city Of twelve million, one needs to signal As loud as a shrieking plane entering glass?!”

“Every reader, as he reads, is actually the reader of himself. The writer's work is only a kind of optical instrument he provides the reader so he can discern what he might never have seen in himself without this book. The reader's recognition in himself of what the book says is the proof of the book's truth.” – Marcel Proust

If the sheaf of moments spent In your company can be thought Of as a book that you where writing On the slate of cold air, by uttering Words through your speech,

And the mostly silent me, as the reader, Read-listening to your appearing and Disappearing sentences, what new truths About myself did I then discern in those Lines, apart from the one I already knew

On how this dislocated self and that of The other’s will never be truly reconciled Into the earnestly wished for double helix?

Dear God or Whoever,

Let this unfolding moment be not like that of an eager moth engulfed in fire but instead be like that of a rock, veined with fragments of copper, rust, mica, pain, happiness, trembling, as it travels along the body of a river, clear and calm as this sunlight winter morning,

forgetting itself across both time and distance, taking on the transperency of water as it simultaneously colors the body that enfolds it with its essence, as they - both the rock and the river - become indistinguishable.