paradise

what do i want to say on this night,
this night of all nights?

the first time i saw tacoma it was the biggest city i'd ever seen.
it wasn't,
because i had been to new york,
but here i saw the city all spread out like glittering tinsel or a chorus of eyes,
and here it was bigger because i was ALONE.

it's 1am,
says my watch,
so i take it off and the magnetic charger hops up off the table to welcome it.

what do i want to say?
quickly now, before sleep makes me forget this moment made holy?

i haven't gotten home from work this late in a long time.
i forgot what happens past midnight,
driving through a city suddenly unfamiliar,
frozen,
waiting,
each one of us suddenly aware of ourselves and of each other.
have you ever looked down at the asphalt and the concrete,
as it looks up at you,
both almost startled:
why, hello.
do i know you, familiar-footed stranger?
were you always there?
have we always been here, together?

i'm new, i say,
and even after ten years it's still the truth.
ah, says the street,
spilling out like 60,000 miles of blood vessels,
so am i.

ten years from now
(and ten times ten)
it will still be truth,
both sneaker and gutter,
every moment,
made and making new.