Something is happening outside my mind—
The honeysuckle shivers
This hot July
When heaven’s just
A little bit too close.
The real and unreal dance
But when the music stops
It’s like nothing ever happened,
The imaginary cities
Pulled from actual blueprints
Are less than the shimmering grass—
So God reduces to isolate thread
And the flight of the moth
Must be reconstituted
In order to no longer
Be understood—
The shadows we raise
Against the glare
Of transcendence
Deliver the cool
Indifference to pain
That makes everything
Hurt
So deeply
We become the angels
We’ve long prayed to be,
Tossing bouquets
Of our spoiled attention
On a decomposing earth
That accepts what we know
Without our knowing.
The Bible crosses the road
In the walking palms
Of a voice that chants
Its illuminated frieze,
Learning the codes
To be free
In the prisons
Of chapter and verse,
Eyes averted
From the exurban gold
Where the empty slides
And set picnic-pieces
Lack nothing
Of human touch
Or infinite compassion
As the trees trace the gestures
Of an approving mind
Expressing comprehension
In subtle nods
And sweeping bows.
The leaves once released
Chase each other
Cross the field
As if there is nothing more to catch
But the wind and the hope
That as they float
They will be silent.
A lone passerby
Sings a hymn
And then goes quiet
When he sees me.
The distant cars
Mix crisply
With the leaves,
As if to sneak away
From the solitude of people
Tapping keys with nails
To some other obligation
Where they might disappear
For a spell
In thoughts that keep
The golden light at bay,
Thus becoming
As rocks for craws
To voice one’s discontent
With all that is
Not understood
Yet,
What needs no understanding—
And us still too perfect
To ever give it.
