All it takes is a walk.
And a walk is first person nothing in particular,
everything in detail..
Sidewalks are carved with the tetragrammaton
of those who were young when the cement went down.
Squirrels dart across streets, duel with traffic.
Crows caw the name of their god
then thousand times a day.

Meanwhile, an oak is alone
with the scriptures of its leaves,
the hard rock of its trunk,
the monotheism of deep roots.
Mockingbird song, wind gust, sun-rays…
a lack of cohesion among worshipers.
But who cares as long as reverence gets done.

A familiar face ends my exile.
“Good morning. Nice weather.
The fertility god has been good to us.”
Doctor says I need to lose twenty pounds.
Twenty pounds of kitchen, bedroom, parlor,
he doesn’t say.
Twenty pounds of being in the house,
on the couch, immersed in the two dimensional
All it takes is a hearty stroll through neighborhood bric-a-brac.
White fences, kabbalist mystics, dogs, Rosicrucians,
Spanish families new to the area, refrigerators on pavement,
alms to the garbage trucks.
I was immersed iii a book not an hour ago.
Existence was nothing but me and Gatsby lazing by his pool.
But now a kid on a bicycle is in on it.
A young woman pushing a pram.
And here comes George in his motorized wheelchair.
No sign of him in 1920’s Long Island .
But all it takes is a daily constitutional,
an hour or so, up the hill, down the side street,
along the main street, then through the college.
Woman on bench feeding pigeons,
it was either you or Daisy Buchanan:
All it takes is a walk. It’s you.