a pulse
rolling down 47th street, or the freeway
a pulse, not apart perhaps
from a white capped wave that just
broke on a summer shoreline in Mendocino
and now ripples a white farewell to Africa.
I want to tell someone (who will believe me?)
that if I lift this foot
a spiral galaxy
will spill like cream
across the fine dark pavement of eternity.
(1989) from "A House of Doors - Open Poems"