A nail in the stairs, a starburning outbut there are these thresholds, the clickand whir like a realizationwhen the apartment hits some temperature and the heater starts.I know it’s not really a realization.“I don’t believe in object-oriented ontology,” says my friend,and I say, “I know what that means—the foot feels the foot when it feels the ground,”which is wrong, and cradle mine in both hands.Can I still call it knowledge? LatelyI bike not just to get places but to get off the ground:you don’ have to be going somewhere to be somewhere,going. I pedal up the Hudson River Greenway toward the sewage treatment plantin the early dark on Christmas Evealmost no traffic, happy holidays,and watch the moon eat out the convulsing watershamelessly, assiduously, in full public view!This immense, vague category called pleasure.I know language wants specificity, location, momentumI know language doesn’t really want.I know it’s not really a sex act, only sun reflectedon the moon reflected on the water, ghostof a ghost of a day. Not a ghost. Not a day.At the end of the day, as they say,it’s only light against objects. Still I know and want and insist,and the feeling is specific andall lit up, for example, NathalieNathalie, I love you, I’m here in Manhattan going northuntil I turn around, alone with it.