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Talk about...shapes and sizes.
First we've got all the microorganisms
then all the smaller animals,
those giants too will eventually be discussed who
arch their backs and say "what do you make of it?"

The sun, the child, apex of all these
sizes, knowing too its siblings,
nuclear stars, all threaded,
all descending the same unreliable portrait
of midnight in Harlem.
We find it simpler and do just as well
to deal with the lights of the city
as the stars of the ground.

Because we can find you, in Harlem.
We cannot compare such a shape
to the lines on the maps of the streets,
this is no temperament of proportions,
there is no geometry to consider, we
can't frame and measure you like the
heavy trees bending down the boulevard or we would
live there.
But I can't.

As shapes go I have found you
strangely agreeable, reliable.
Death by simplicity, no.
Life cleaned and settled by patterns, no.
Just something soft where it matters to be soft.
And I will enjoy you, your shape and your size
now that I've found you, or else I let you find me.
Bragging about it endlessly, perfectly
arrogant, only because
I never even had to
leave the ground.


The most obvious of thanks should be extended to Susan and Derek (keep it up!).

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