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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