To Abby Heller-Burnham

The Schuylkill flows cleanly, despite
all the murk, as the Expressway looms
on the other side of it; the trees, as
usual, are Heaven, rooted much too
deeply for us to fathom, cocked at
a solid angle into a receptive Universe;
I am waiting, writing on the edge of
wars, chopping through the cesspool
of centuries old shit, stunned by an
awareness of your painting-brain's torques;
and when I imagine you it's with a sense
that we're both standing at the river's
edge (we are, of course), and as long as
we see the trees into the sky we blend in.

Sun glistens on the Schuylkill's surface-
over-presences fill the space between
the river and my third-story window.
The grass, the shrubs are sanctified,
even the concrete walkways look
as though touched by the reality of
deep water, its boundlessness, heft.
Over-presences, untouched by the
sickliness of human reality, subsist,
exist simultaneously, there, not there,
self, no-self, and if I get there myself,
occasionally, it is because I see your
reflection there, your individual life.
Time takes the halves, makes them whole.