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A True Account of Talking to the Sun at the East River PDF E-mail
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
                           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
                           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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