oh, let's call this one... Something Special.  that's safe.

how can it be

that nothing special saved my life,

that a tailpipe exhales

dervish breath in the whirling cold,

that a bit of coconut in my teeth

is the sum of my consciousness...

what are the implications

of my aspirations

if not the same death as

all sweet moments,

every non-discrete 

conjugal visit of arriving and passing away?

the real tragedy is

being unkind,

robbing the world

like an ATM in the late 80s,

so easy and thoughtless

to take the vitality right out of a situation

a face, sparkling eyes of your child,

a broad white gull just off the coast

hovering above the juicy surf

just for you

knowing this thread,

the real source of joy

easily fits on the head of a pin

with space left for a tastefully modern Ikea chair

and maybe a cappuccino machine

from Italy

my days are thin in number.

let me sing all the bawdy gospel flap

I can, and lay it out

without shame.

these are sacred meetings by the river,

you and your breath.  don't try to

share that truth with anyone -

it's just a heavy box of 

letters and a familiar breeze.