But You Recognize It
This is new,
the light is new.
Water tells you a new story
and you are compelled
to kick the puddles from land to sky
which have crossed the room
from sky to land.
The fields are new.
Baby fawns are new.
Elderly deer in their twenties are new
with halos of new invisible antlers.
The neighbors are new
with new unscuffed welcome mats.
Handcuffs are new
and they do not hurt
but they restrain with steely strength
and in the absence of painful wrists
prisoners can better reflect on their actions.
Murphy beds are new.
An engineer just thought of a new kind
of Murphy bed that is hitched
to a trap door in the floor.
The elementary school: new.
The road leading there: new.
New trees on either side of the road
rising up like flying buttresses
to show you a new cathedral
that you can inspire their builder to envision
by touching them once.
New earthquakes, new flash floods,
new tornadoes with old names so we feel
we know them better,
new birthday parties, new cake,
new voice in your own throat,
The perfect dinosaur skeleton is new,
complete, a side-sleeper in the dig site.
Sleep is new.
New images are served to you
as dreams, new glasses
to gulp from, new exuberant thirst.