19to20.04.10

When the morning comes clear as crystal, brilliant blue,
it is hard to believe
in the fragility of my being;
and perhaps that's the point,
sharp as the early air is
with sun and chill and spring.
And I watch
the windows across the way,
the steady stream of traffic below my own,
the clumps of cocoa that cake my coffee mug's
white porcelain walls, clinging like dark cliffs of Dover
above the surf, wanting nothing more
than to escape erosion one more day.
But when my window is thrown open
to give a little of Mulgrew's delicate piano
while taking in turn the syncopation of the street
the equilibrium feels fine,
and I feel myself also
flowing into perfect pace
with the piano and the people
below, at my staggering seventy-two
beautiful beats per minute.