The green light,
two seconds of it,
came in at sunset.
You did not lie.
We were there to watch,
seeing only what was right with the sky.
So, as you can imagine,
we missed the green ocean of the firmament.
We missed the spectacle of Gatsby on the dock.
We missed the glare of the banker’s lamp,
the turtle with the worlds tilting on his back.

We missed the chance to feel eerie in this world.
As if we ever really wanted that.

Who wants to give testimony for the green light at sunset,
the cult of beauty that goes extravagant and unnoticed?
Who wants to build schools of thought
out of the things we’ve missed with this sickness of knowing,
instruct the children to see the light instead of name it?
Who wants to stand before whatever of God is left
and give account for clearly having seen His Face in city grids?
One step ahead of Moses
before the hand comes down
to shield from this,
the view of the Almighty,

who wants the green light at sunset?
 

Under this skin

With doors uninterrupted, no broken glass,
no taking of my arm in public,
I do wonder how you got in so easily.
You must have come from the inside
of whatever I was
to the outside of whomever you are,
when there has been no touch between us,
no visible land of entry.

My skin already knew you.

I do know the bone structure of these bodies
say nothing that could keep us together.
Nor is it early childhood, late communion
or a similar view of the face of an everlasting God
that makes you so known and familiar.
This resonance seems nothing more than air,
when there is nothing which is more than air.
Perhaps we have an equal pattern of soul flight
or a same star
or a similar thought in our genetic code--
a known need to feel light
and endless wonder.
Still nothing more than air,
when air is the only need that every second has.

Who ever knows why it's so easy for so few.
Why their skin is yours so early on.

But I am not
so easily not
other things that you have need of.
Why should I say otherwise?
How could I say otherwise?
I am not a virtuous woman.
I am not quiet walks and slow thought,
always being mild and understood.
I am too disorganized with Mystery
to make promises with Truth.
And the thought of what virtue could do for me
does not feel noble or enlightened.
Yes, she is a beautiful woman
or so Solomon has said.
But that is not my beauty.

Tonight we've been keeping quiet and still.
Our skin has opened cell by cell.
We see these stars together.
Here I can be virtuous.
The way the sky speaks to me
makes me more honest than the rest.

And for one night, this may be enough.