Sometimes, I wonder if I would know a beautiful thing

if I saw it. So often, I was miserable when I was young,

even in California with the ocean close and fat seals

munching flatfish, tonguing urchins in their molars,

sunning themselves pink by the sandy primrose. I ignored

the whistle of the rock-faced mountain and her chorus

of dry hills, walked past the blazing stars and lemons in

dramatic ripe. I was so sad out west. The truth is I am

most exquisite on the east coast, meaning I am in rhythm.

I do not track the world by beauty but joy. That first bite

into the soft carrot of tagine stew while a storm wailed

over the East River. The misfit raccoon bouncing on

trash bins in Central Park after we saw a Japanese play.

We almost crashed a wedding that night at the Boathouse

but lost our nerve. We were not dressed for the caper,

but even this felt like rogue joy. Yes. It was joy, wasn’t it?

Even if it was ugly, it was joy.