Some folks who are serious about language would call that transcendence, or they may just call it daydreaming. Somehow the poem matters. Not this poem exactly, but the poem, the song, the hum. It matters by getting to the matter, the place where mattering happens, far from where we are. We feel the faint motions and hear slivers of the song, and jump for joy at all that we can know.
Forgiveness can sometimes be a sin.
Waitresses here must wear skirts and some kind of head covering. They are pretty college girls but rarely look sexy in their diner digs. On their breaks they go outside to smoke and stare at the cracks in the concrete sidewalk. Somewhere, an urban dove tended by a night watchman is released from the roof of a skyscraper. Smoke is everywhere, and only cigarettes, really good ones, are burning.