Wednesday, June 22, 2011

what a day to be reborn--

gray heavy air tinting the street

a damp pale silver--

the air itself like a curtain of plaster

you must push your way through--



as if the axis already shifted

and the world flipped over

and Memphis's atmosphere soaks now through

the New York summer which is in

itself a swamp of roiling bodies and rippling velocity--



what a day to wipe mucus

from the eyes and nose and throat

and breathe afresh and see anew

the world as it always is--

thick and ponderous but for these renewed

channels of perception--



the actual sense-memory of a womb

suspended in the dank June afternoon--

coming to be what I already am--

what a day to be reborn

as if I rose from a humid surf of bed sheets

to leave the Aphrodite in her momentary sweat

to run to the store for a cold six-pack--



what a day I perceive

when my own immortality I believe



Content (c) 2008-2011 Philip Milito.

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