No Miracle

it could’ve been an email,
or a knife gliding over the bruise of an apple,
a surgical sweetness.

it could’ve been a pebble,
a vagrant lullaby,
a slow walk through the neighborhood
when spring let loose
and buckled through the field,
throwing its head back.

delight will not ruin me.
i walk over the melting roof,
watch the space between the buildings.  

and none of this, no scent, no miracle,
is original.