troy was here

The world starts here…
in a nike crested track suit
on the way to a late slip
in early spring,
in a lazy amble – dog speed -
through a watery city street,
in the few eyeblinks between
the sounds of a shovel
struck hard to the earth or
in the still air of an
elevator between floors.
The world starts here…
in the quiet glances shared
among strangers scurrying
well-lit halls,
on the barren wall that
hangs a daily plan for a
day to plan,
in the dull murmur of a
cafeteria crowd somewhere
between five and six or
in a shadows blurred edge.
The world starts here…
in childsteps between
pews on a Saturday afternoon
that struggles for Spring or
in a wavering bag
wavering about a wind,
in harmonics that stray
cautiously between resolve,
in between sighs from an
over-worked hostess or in
the floor that wantonly serves
an edge to her foot.
The world starts here…
in a steady hum that blurs
its source seamlessly,
in a puff of smoke – skyward -
leaving behind its birth,
in a corner that shares itself
a yard sharing itself
a home prim and proper, or
in the flash of paint
stretching smooth over asphalt
over hills over and over.
The world starts here…
not in some big bang whose
echo has fallen,
or in beginnings that claim
heavens or cobras afloat
in seas of nothingness -
but in the eyes of a man
who trembles when he speaks -
searching unanswerables -
or in a dog who urges play,
in a friend who bids a
friend farewell and later thanks
the experience.
The worlds starts here…
in a blinking cursor,
a pencils’ etching,
in a flash of light, a glimpse
into darkness or in motion as
a wave might collapse on shores
beckoning its salty pitch -
returning, exhausted, backwater,
or in an ice that tonguemelts,
or in a moment – and in between
moments such as now and
perhaps then and in between
those still yet unaccounted.
The world starts here…
now… as soon as you finish
this sentence.

Or this one.