October 15, the Dow closes up, 10,062.
What if I write it all down, track it,
if I consult tickers and windows, measure blood flow,
monitor the rise and fall of my accounts,
the tarnish of leaves?
Will a veil tear?
Will a web sparkle dew-strung, a rope
bridge between the dead, living, unborn?
Can I feel these numbers in my hands
like Whitman at the rail of a ferry?
The Dow rises above 10,000.
My dog scratches his ear.
A lamp buzzes on a timer.
Rains clear, and the cold arrives.
The unborn keep their distance.
I make a dinner of brown rice, butternut squash, and kale
with my 3,000 nerves bristling in the air.