I do it all the time: in public, midday
walking along Broadway or down the subway steps;

in dance class, eyes fixed on the heels
of the girl in front of me. It’s as easy as breathing—not to,

suddenly forgetting to exhale—
the next best thing to pleasure, this

rubbing up against the back of Death
as if he were a stranger at a concert.

I only know it’s happened once it’s over.
This must be what the medieval mystics meant

by ecstasy—this hot holy flash in the chest,

the good shepherd with his crook around my neck,
my life in a short loop, tightening.