On Crossing into Manhattan

Brief sky, I am here now;
the living mouthpiece of
this toppled skyline, draped
encroaching from the shore
where retreats, pulses
the silent sights of clang,
myriad slit of lights and fog.

Bright morning! The dew and hushed
mist mix to make the silky mud.
I stand on this film of silky mud
and you are with me, I am
the beating heart, the happy
solemn contrast of being apart,
suspended, the sauntering jettison.

And from this vantage
I see that we walk on
the Earth at sort of an angle
of clamoring locations,
our unions, our silent bustle
twinkling infinite secret,
a tangle of garbled emotions
and away, the salt wind scoffs

Somewhere still, light glitters
on the cool sidewalks
between the parceled trees,

where we are your Atman all,
Walt Whitman. We are dirt and blood
walking around and talking to each other.