In the Sumerian hours of evening
Waiting on a main course of miso glaze Chilean sea bass
And petit filet mignon perigourdine sauce,
Drinking an unusual Italian merlot -- because California wines give me a headache --
With fine, soft tannins and hints of French and Slovenian oak
It is hard to imagine that light jazz does not fill all the rooms to the horizon.
This high above the streets and the subtle needs of other men
The buildings of New York stand like illuminated punch cards,
Like dominoes of some strange and monumental numerology.
The white light becomes yellow in the distance
Like bright seeds scattered in fields of black earth
It is impossible to believe that somewhere
Among the light and dark spaces of labor and repose
Someone is unhappy
Someone is suffering
Someone is dead.
Is it the elevation that makes such beliefs possible?
No wonder men climb mountains to find answers,
Make their sacrifices and consume their sacred meals.
In another age, I would say it was the voice of gods.
Now, I know it is a finely crafted conceit that apprehends things
That finds a message in a landscape of binary code
Between grilled pepper shrimp and vanilla cream meringue cake.