Can I demand
joy
of the universe?

Can I imagine
myself
into an ecstasy?

Can I say that
this is not perfect?
Can I lie about God?

Can you look me in the eye
and tell me I don’t know
happiness when I see it?

I see it.
I am not afraid of it now.
Can I be unfraid long enough

to take it, hold it close,
deathless,
until I lose myself inside?

he thinks Sunday
is something
like a chance for love

thinks something
like not knowing what it means
to be in love, or about love not being an answer,
though it is not a question either, more a punctuation mark
in a long sentence, and something about it being
a way of knowing the difference between
stretches of encumbrance and moments of freedom

something like flight

something like a woman on stage
opening herself like an envelope
never mailed
something like postage due

something like understanding eyes
and a whiff of memory

something like the way
he sits on the stool
and after four drinks
sneaks a peek
into the strippers’ dressing room

something like grasping
for someone else’s
sanctuary
something he thinks he’s been given
by right of birth

something like a false idol
something he never had
something that disowned him
something he is ashamed of

something like the way he turns away
retreats to his car
drives the short way home

something like waking
from a just deferred thought
of home and knowing
it’s not likely to be recaptured

something like the dread that says
never go home

something like another sabbath
devoid of rest and sacrament

something like God
not having a bloody thing
to say to him
in the still of the car
after the engine
is turned off
and before
he opens the door