He stalks our dark canyons
by firelight
casting star-shadows
on the rain-slicked streets
Rejoicing
at the church of life
at our chaotic march
led by endless, sacred dreams
He lets it all
flow around him,
such joy among the throngs
that fed him long ago
Packed to the gills,
steaming the windows
with breath
from every corner of Earth
so many mysteries, lives
intersecting in this beast
Walt Whitman,
your Holy Ghost
rolls on
even here,
an overcrowded bus
on the ass end of Queens
You dance on the fingers
of old maids, immigrant children
and harried drivers.
You keep us hopeful
when humanity fails us, again.
You are here,
in every strange swirl of humanity,
in every passing glance at forbidden fruit.
Your ghost sustains us, reminds us
that there is joy to be unearthed
like gemstone treasure,
even here.
