The world is on its way to you
always, never resting—
the red of that pillow on the couch
crosses the open room to meet your eyes—
the sound of someone driving by the house
travels on until it finds your ears—
even this hard floor—kneel now to touch it,
feel how it springs up to be felt—
and—oh—behind these bright things
are all the other things that are coming—
the air between you and the world is
only and always all the world—
always on its way to you.