In this saved hour I want to praise The otherworldly feel of it — As if physics and gravity were a phase Outgrown and now, at last, what we suspected Was possible is possible, the future behind us. In this gifted time it’s fine to talk about the slow Moon hanging in a tree like a paper lantern, Air crisp as snapped fingers. Whatever comes next Makes sense, like sleeping on the ocean, nothing Sounder or stranger than water holding you up. This hour is not extra loneliness, more reasons to die. Not another love lost to the brutal swamp. The world is not too good for us, nor we for it. A saxophone and a woman’s laughter flirt In a window high above the street, the day pulling Gray blankets to its chin. Rain rises and wind sweeps Bills from the table like confetti. This bestowed hour I speak a language I don’t understand, live again Without minding the mistakes. The hole In my sleeve disappears. And everything up it.