In the subway car, a mystery of proximity: a yawnpassing from mouth to mouth,across a line of seated strangers,in perfect order. I watched it movinglike a secret through a row of children,washing toward me as each person openedtheir lips to swallow it upand then, in unbroken revolution,give it away.I thought this must be G-d: airmoving through human bodieslike a soft needle picking up stitches along pale cloth.And I felt my neighbor expandin her crest of breath, handfloating to her mouthlike wood rising in water,and I prepared myself for the gift—But the yawn turned across the aisle.I saw it grow inside a child and then driftinto his mother, as it passed againand again away from me.What would you unseeso you could be inside of it?Could it ever be enough just to say:it happened, nothing openedor closed around me, air movedand was wind, air moved and wasbreath, air moved and was death,my life, it did not change—