My mother said.
All surgeons want to do is surge.
And as one took the staples from her skull

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,