I fell with my father through space
In a space module as round
                  as your thumb

 Not the tired figures of our own fatigue,
our misplaced envy, sleep eternal, peace
in the blank heaven of complete belonging.

On a Washington Heights corner in the panting swelter,
I learned that grit was not hominy, or teeth, but proud
   squalor.

deek-teh
deek-tah-tor
behn-zeen
dee-seh-pleen

Feelings seem like made-up things, 
though I know they’re not.   
I don’t understand why they lead me

Watching little Henry, six, scoop up blueberries
and shovel them into his mouth, possessed.
I’m so glad I brought blueberries—wish my kids

It's a wave, isn't it? Not a particle,
A fresh, cool wave so why am I flushed
and not washed?
Why dirtier than before?

May you sleep the most famous sleep: the night kind, one-third-of-your-whole-life-like, and if you panic in the peace, you are not dying. Breathing but not doing is not dying. 

The economical ikebana
of the lesser octopus
is disarming,

The round white knob
on the dresser drawer—