Certain arrangements of color in a painting

or an altar or a garden

the fragrance of beach roses, recalling summer drives along the shore before you knew that your adults were flawed

a self portrait  on  a museum wall, done with

incisive wit, recognizing you from the canvas, challenging you

a fanciful iron grate , a leftover from an era when they made these things

a gargoyle suspended in almost perpetuity over a city that rarely notices, grinning down at you.

sitting at a full table and body surfing on the din of conversation

knowing it will be continuing after you are gone

the memory of still summer day laying in bed watching the curtains billow and hearing the noise from party next door – the one we chose not to attend – and not being sorry.

to me, these things are pleasure – the moment when you recognize something out side of yourself and recognize a bond with it.

Some part of you reacts

like when you see someone you recognize in an unlikely place and

a new connection is made,

in this new place,

this new arrangement of notes,

a new cognition.