When I sucked the nicotine
from the Kool deep
into my lungs aping the image
of that oh-so-sophisticated
Sigma Theta in her cashmere
cardigan, her Bass weejuns.
Or was it later walking
in the garden among the Rodin
sculptures in Paris, standing
before the actual Thinker
rather than the myriad
plaster fakes, cartoon
parodies of deep thought.
Perhaps, it was snorkeling
near the Hawaiian reef
where fish accept their
yellows, oranges, and blues
as ordinary, and swim on,
mindless of eyes enlarged
by plastic masks, bodies
redundant with excessive cells.
No, it had to be the morning
I woke in Zermatt, opened
my screen-less window
to see the Matterhorn, startlingly
near, startlingly clear
against blue sky and realized
the world held thousands
of places I could go
millions of things to see.
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