Connecticut Morning

The sun always chides me to grow up,
become impeccable, for once.
But the fog this morning arrives dying,
never quite articulating what it is
except to cover the trees
and obscure the bay.

Clarity is another game,
a way of hiding the heart
from its all-knowing largeness
—it hurts as it hurts,
all pain is locked inside it, all joy.
The buildings only disappear.

How I want them to feel, and to think,
these faces of stone, how,
when I let that desire go
the light in the window
recognizes me.
The sun beams descend as blessings.

The white sun turns my head down.
Dark reflections play nearby.
Ah, the endless pose of forced humility.
Nothing ever hurts me but myself:
reading disapproval in the darkness,
feeling vulnerable in the light.

The fog has lifted from the river
as if it was never here.
The voices come back, crying for love.
My choice is to give what I can.
Let all creatures stay where they are.
To move them, I must first kneel down.