September 11, 2012

New York

And the sky is that same blue the news
kept emphasizing the irony of, cloudless and calm,
a picture-perfect doorway into fall, and my heart’s loose
and open even as traffic stalls our passage through the tunnel. I am
aware, more than ever, of this moment’s equipoise in the tippy see-saw
that makes a life. It would be so easy to tense and flinch
at the small expanse of good fortune, wait for the random law
of physics to flip the odds against us. But breakfast calls, an inch-
thick stack of French toast and the sticky sweetness of syrup, dripped
by a hungry hand. I can’t get enough. This blue-ripe sky won’t be stopped.