I Say Good Morning

to the ticklish of your neck,
the freckled of your shoulders,
the vast & very
of your chest, all
your underneath
streets, & electricity,
good morning,
packed subway
of workers commuting
from Grand Central
in their finest
red suits, oh
how they know
where to go, what
to carry, even at night,
zipping from
downtown heat
to the chilly outskirts
of toes, or this good,
good morning,
their dashing
to the cheek,
that bloom, as I
kiss you there,
& because these
workers know
just what to do,
because they seem
to sing Good morning
back, when I sing,
they must know
how I need
every blossoming
city block
of you, all your feral
machinery—
how I wish you
your sweet
mammal breath
always
to be