Bathing in the Jordan

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Bathing in the Jordan

This morning, sitting with Billy Collins and 
the nine emaciated heads of ghost-
white horses, I watch the pulsing rhythmic air
from the heater at my feet stand up and twist

about the living room like a toddler in 
her Cinderella dress. The street lights tell 
their flicker-jokes, sneaking punchlines in 
the window slit above the door, and all 

the birds are waking up and laughing with 
the morning dew. And somehow here am I, 
a skeleton with skin, who gets to laugh 
along with Billy and the birds, at all 

the little things that make this place a place, 
receive the grace of spit and mud smeared on my eyes.

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