The Alteration

Self-regulation is widespread.

But there is no exemption for

what happens when we notice it.

Consciousness is a soft thumb,

the subtlest of pressures, that

alters everything; no thing is

not touched by this tiny bushwack.

Now the word on the street is

alteration.

In town a local deli is connected to a

small bar.  I remember the two spaces

as a tailor shop. One touch remains as

a reminder. Over the doorway that connects

the bar to the deli is a sign that reads:

"Alterations within."

In a local dream someone showed me

a photograph of the moment when

sleep finally connected to wakefulness.

As from a newsreel a voice said it was

the greatest achievement in our history.

The photo showed two pieces of half-eaten

fruit. "What's this?" I heard myself say.

"You just missed the two parrots," said the voice.

The devil is in the thought

I watch the L passing. It is late.

Faces roll by, streaming, back-lit.

It is early, someone is buttoning my shirt.

The L is passing through my mind.

Aspects of the body click and brighten,

dim and damper.

"My heart is thinking," I hear myself say.

Nearby a bee is settling, a thimble of radiance.

Across the street a brick building climbs,

carrying the sun to its crown.

The sun is in vantage, pouring down,

reciprocating the last moment.

In the distance, some time, some place,

deep in the green,

a small naked woman holds a blue plastic box.

She knows a tiny person dwells within.

She has heard his voice, his music.

I brush my teeth, unable to reach any of this.

This is all so tentative, full.

This is all so contingent, empty.

Walk with me awhile.