Zero Distance

I binge watched
the Hudson today,
its calm waters whispering
sustained sighs of
relief
from the incessant chop
of ferry traffic.

Gazing across the river
I zero in
on a lone Jersey traffic light
blinking slowly
from green
to yellow
to red,
but nobody stops
for there’s
nobody around
to stop,
except 
me.

Over there —
in the river's
swollen middle,
I can trace
the dark outline 
of a fat grey
duck
bobbing up and down
on the liquid surface,
a look of abject
resignation
on it’s tired mallard face,
like it just went
you know what?
to hell with this
and gave up
the flight.

Closer now —
I can hear the waves
lick the swollen pillars
of pier beneath my feet,
a shaggy dog
lapping at her dish.
The sun peaks out now
from a heavy curtain
of cloud
and right here —
right in front of my face,
jots of excited spring air
vibrate alive
with shimmering
urgency.

Moving even closer
still —
the faint outline
of my nose 
defocused
before my eyes
but only the right
flank of it, oddly
and then
the sudden
blink of my eyes
instantly
destroys the world
only to
rebuild it again
in the fraction
of a silent
wingbeat.

Dropping all the way
back here now —
from the closest point
I can find,
looking out at the world
from zero distance,
from this empty
open space
this boundless
timeless place
for everything to simply
appear within —
including my nose,
this thirsty pier,
that fed-up duck,
and the lonely
Jersey traffic light,
turning green for me
now, in an
entirely different
state.