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A True Account of Talking to the Sun at the East River |
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by Bob Rosenthal
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| A True Account of Talking to the Sun at the East River |
April 8, 2009 6:42 AM Birchat HaChama at East 10th Street
This very morning I
lie in my bed
not dreaming
not able to rise
the back of my hand
flows like a large wave on the ocean
under the covers
grazes over a half hemisphere
an hour out of Halifax
Isaac rises for coffee
& we tread East
to await her
Lower East Side
is no Russian dascha
no flimsy beach shack
now I stand
at the sun bleached rail
as the East River ebbs
in Brooklyn and Queens
several skeletal high-rise housing towers
are going up
twenty eight years now again
you won’t be able
to burn through them
only between them
now I see you
illuminating
highest cirrus threads
mauve glow
the ruddy buoy
leans with the ocean flow uptown
I didn’t think that you could find me
in the sixth floor walk-up dark room
you wouldn’t knock at me
through a hollow white door
the sun lifts her
skirts of wispy orange dolor
eases herself over
Petrol Tanks
Hello
she calls
I look up from my notebook
Yes I came to you!
Good I forgot your address.
The river bows in its center
to sing its tiny ululations to her fieriness
You are older than Vladimir and Frank were.
I thought you’d be younger!
I know -- I’ve been sleeping a long time.
I got up many times to look at you rise
but never before to talk to you
It’s cold here could you move
a little closer?
she grabs her hems and lumbers
over the low steepled skyline
Thanks -- that’s better
I am old now
I am colder too
that is until now
so can you tell me is it my turn?
no sleepy one --
you will wake and
you will sing
but you will only be heard
by the rippling water
the sun is lifting off
& rising enough to turn
warehouse windows deep red
streetlamps burn like candles in a lit room
this day is starting!
Wait Sun!
please tell me something
that I need to know
I might not be here
in twenty-eight years!
she smiles now I see
black sun spots on her teeth
Bob be you unnamed
& worthless
without ego enough
to kill yourself
I will send a gift
of light
through you
every day is the last day of creation
every day you will rise and gather
the beams
the rays
nature’s creations
and although your words are . . .
drops of fire scud over the water
what you breath
and they are also your shoes
the people you love
the Human Comedy you adore
and Me
the grand creator
We all say this is all beginnings
which have no endings!
lightly she rises into
pale blue sky
& starts cross-town |
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