tai chi in bryant park starts at 7am 

i watch them each morning all summer.
i pick a wobbly green metal table.
if this were a movie maybe people would
move all as one. a body of water. a current.
but the people are haphazard. out of sync.
their eyelids turn into petals & fall off
in a great gust that brings me back to life.
they are trying to pose on one leg--
trying to raise leg to chest. trying to 
hold two arms out. these motions seem simple
until they're slowed down. how some people
move too fast & others linger on the motion.
the fountain amuses itself & it bothers me
how clear the water is. no water 
in the city looks like that. i want
to step inside. i want to tai chi
in the water. soak my nice office-going clothes.
there's a book store a block away 
not open yet. everyone has their own coffee.
one woman in the tai chi mob closes her eyes
& gets down on her knees. she becomes 
a holly bush-- all prickly. sturdy leaves.
no one else seems to notice. they continue
their movements. i consider what plant
in the park i would like to become. 
certainly not a tree. they have so much 
responsibility. something aesthetic.
a cluster of peonies nestled between bushes.
or maybe the vines that crawl across the back wall
of the library. how do they decide when 
to stop? does their motion calm them?
i've never known a soothing movement.
my limbs are wooden & carry me
all the up 6th avenue every single day.
my clothing sticks to my skin.
we're all in humid july's mouth. 
i am nothing like the people practicing
tai chi if for no other reason 
than i've decided i can't be one of them. 
if i joined in--if i moved like that 
maybe i would never leave. 
maybe i would put my whole blue backpack 
into the garbage.
float my shoes like little boats 
in the foundation. maybe i would kneel down
like that woman. feel my eye lids flutter away 
as petals. my limbs becoming tangled bush.
skin, a chorus of holly leaves. 
a great rustling where there was 
once bones. sometimes as i watch them
i feel like crying. 
at first i thought it was because
i wanted to have that time too-- whatever time
these humans had given themselves.
time dedication to articulating their bodies.
hands curved as crescent moon. 
feet as meat hooks. now just recalling 
those moments i think i want to cry
for simpler reasons. what it looks like
to attempt to follow someone.
how two men up front were templates 
for all these other bodies.
how the fountain was clear &
the water would have been cool
if i'd have wadded in.