It’s one of those days when you hear everyone’s heart beating,
            can feel the blood trickling through people’s veins.
I feel so fertile—each woman in Tompkins Square Park
            eats her ice cream just for me.
Trees shimmer and swell in their bark.
I have guitar strings in  my throat and flamenco the mother
            hauling three children in a stroller.
I see the vein in the haystack of the junkie’s arm.
I feel people across town thinking about me, can sense myself blooming
            in Molly’s mind like a desert rose.
Old people gather around the dog park and look at the hounds
            that had been their youth.
I can see the smile being passed from face to face, like a baton,
            as we glide around the track of now.
Even the cosmic amputee feels three-quarters whole.
Joan Wasser sings under an oak tree, her voice so fierce and luminous,
            like watching glass being blown.
Young women float by in dresses made from the skin of green apples.
A businessman drools his boozy initials onto the blouse of a Polish teenager.
Everyone’s genital odometer is wiped clean.
So this is what it feels like to have sex with the universe, I think,
as a pigeon lands on my shoulder and whispers
            tomorrow’s winning lotto number in my ear.