It was a mistake to drink that latte after dark.  
Fooled the system to think it was somehow morning, 
again, so soon. Shades stuck in the up position; 
plumbing tapped, the old interior rumbling.  

I gave in to the tall beige tumblers steaming 
in the readers' hands onstage; they conned 
my I-know-better side—that, and the wayward notion 
that downing one might move some bookstore elf 
to a magical metabolic upgrade, subtly given. 

The French roast tuned me to the readers, though. 
Looking down hopefully at us in the audience  
for signs of pleasure matching what they felt. 
On my folding-chair I kept crossing and uncrossing 
my legs, and my mind's legs, my memory's and attention's legs. 
I was right there with them in each stanza —
ready to weep at a hint of the immortal. 
(Hearing poets announce its presence aloud 
meant it was always true each time they said it.) 

I'm past the time-anxious accoutrements of middle age.  
Full of resolve, though: less coffee, more poetry, 
tai chi, walks on country lanes with the d-o-g. 
More awakening to love—anticipating 
that eventual weightless grace we all assume, 
some day unplanned, feeling it wash over, wash through. 

Like how I imagine from watching sunny footage 
how it might be to duck into the green-glass curl 
of a surfers' lofty slo-mo barrel wave 

into a timeless extenuating core light  
that rolls as slow and brilliant as rays of glory

the surf     the surge     the sea     the sky     the sigh