For Now, Heavens In New York

He had no poise
no drop dead looks
and yet,
this little crooked smile
played on his lips

and something about it became him.

Maybe its the lighting
Maybe its the timing.
his shirt
the way coffee jumps in my stomach.
maybe its me.

Maybe its me sitting here
with fresh eyes
and unused to clean air.

Maybe its the way the sun came out, or how he said "excuse me" so politely.
Or how the birds are out again, after so long.

Maybe its him.
And Me.

"[it's scary/it's glorious]"

you are the elephant in the room, fast asleep.
We tiptoe about you, careful, ever careful, so not to rouse you.
So you won't awaken and crush us all
[me]
Your weight, importance, cannot be discounted.
One day you'll open one weary eye
and see me again
- awakened and infuriated, you are less large gentle bumbling elephant, more calculating, wild, preditor animal. -
and you will try to reclaim me
with bright scary eyes
large fumbling hands.
And he who tiptoes with me
shall try to slay you.
How do you slay what also exists in the mind, as real as outside?
How do you banish what will mearly
easily
return?