Michael Harty

It is nearly enough now, to breathe
this air misted with salad smells, to renew
my fingers’ friendship with waxy
pored skin of grapefruit,
tidy lump of lemon,
webbed rind of cantaloupe,
veiny husk on nubbled corn, the tumble
and chuck of walnuts around my knuckles.
Let me move among their samenesses
not counting time, every heartbeat
the same as every other;
let the changing light of afternoon flow around me;
let me feel the hands of evening, warm
hands touching me by name.