I am not light.
I will not claim
an inner glow.
I will not lie about my flame —
what light I throw
is not my own,
and my name and form
when clarified
are best defined
as reflection alone.

This is no shame.

I am the mirror,
always. Even when covered
the possibility of blinding shine
is always present and ever ready.
I have slaved and silvered myself for
years and years
to be prepared for whenever
the Ray strikes. 

Do not implore me
to let my inner fire roar,
to crack my glass
so those before me
may see by my
illumination —
the same Light
strikes us all. It falls
upon each of us. 
All it takes
to throw it back
into the Dark that’s all around
is a little polish, a little
spit and shine: this Light is ours,
not mine,

and I will not lie
and claim it for my own.

A gold, pierced ball
of metal glows
with tamed fire
in a living room. A library
roils with sacrament;
a kitchen rocks sustenance,
and a bedroom saturates its sleepers
in the scent of unconsciousness
and connection to the largest
events in the sphere of love
and dreams.  When a closet door
closes upon a child
fearful of a parent
or a conjured monster,
it is a universe of safety.
and that child learns
the great truth: that
one can make a cathedral
out of any room, no matter
its size.

Is anything
real to us
if we can’t
touch it
and call it
solid?

Have we turned
our lives
into a sieve
so fine
that we call it a bucket
and will only accept
what it catches,
ignoring
the many things
that slip through?
What will we call
the wetness
that is left upon us?

How shall we explain it
to our children
when we’ve denied it
again and again?

What if we tear a hole
in the bottom
of our belief
and let everything through?

What if we’re thereafter
soaking wet
all the time,
shivering and cold —
or what if we’re suddenly,
beyond our experience,
deeply happy?

What then?

Here’s to that breaking
and its resultant minefields.  Here’s
to a calendar
slipping off the wall
onto the floor —

here’s to this date
and this hour full
of torn metal
and rushing water,

and whatever comes after.

Just as he removed his hat
a dove flew by
clutching an olive branch.

The dove went back to the Ark,
bearing a message
that it was finally safe to land.

So the Ark settled on his bare head,
and animals poured out
and took refuge in his scalp.

Some made their way down
to the ears and nostrils,
entered his brain and took up residence.

They began to breed,
murmured and cackled and screamed
that he was holy ground.

This played hell with his concentration.
Work became impossible.
He was fired and became indigent.

I met him at a veterans’ shelter
where I’d gone to drop off clothing
for the winter ahead.

He told me, “They won’t shut up,
but at least there’s a rainbow in front of me
all the time.”

I dug through the bag I’d brought
and found him a new hat.
“I don’t need that —

wouldn’t want to chase away
another dove looking for
dry land.  But I do wonder

where that first bird
got that olive branch
and why she didn’t just lead Noah there.

What was wrong with that guy’s head?
Why didn’t she think it was good enough
for the animals if there were olive trees there?

Maybe I was meant to be the new world. 
When I think about it, I kinda feel sorry
for the guy who didn’t get chosen,

sometimes.  Maybe
he needs that hat?  He’s got to be
cold.”

This plane I’m on
is falling to earth,
and I’m still growing.

This train I’m on
is swerving from the track,
and I’m still growing.

This car I’m in
is aimed at the wall,
and I’m still growing. 

The needle
and the hot shot are waiting,
and I’m still growing.

The bullet and the knife
are prepared,
and I’m still growing.

How clogged I’m becoming
from poisonous food.
I’m still growing.

How angry the liver,
how broken the aorta.
I’m still growing.

If I fade into the couch
and stop moving today,
I’ll still be growing

until all the hair and nails
and bones and fat cells and organs
decide to call a strike.

This body is
unfinished business
until it decides otherwise.

From the yoga pants
to the pretty hemp bag,
she’s the very model
of the modern conscious mom;

if we walked together
there would be wonder at how
we’d found each other,
and how the child came to be

because I am anything but
that match you’d expect for her,
and all my fantasies are unnatural
and full of folly;

we don’t pass through the same circles
and a guy like me is the furthest thing
from her mind.  In fact, she’s the furthest thing
from my mind as well; one moment

of wonder does not a crush make. 
I can’t see me being that close
to anyone that clean and honest
in her enthusiasm

for the care and feeding
of family and the rest of the world.
I’m a dirty bird with a bad heart
and a trail of smoke in my mouth

almost all the time.  Women like her
set me to thinking
how I got here, that’s all;
I like where I am, as she must like

where she is.  Any thought
of connection is silly.
Any thought at all that contains
the both of us in it is sillier still.

So I’m headed for the beer aisle
instead of lingering near her,
and that’s a good thing for both of us
and for that kid she’s pushing

in the stroller that costs more
than I make in a week.  I’ve got
my own stuff to do without taking
a single moment to do for another.

Anyway, if we were somehow to meet
I’d probably have to quit smoking
and get a real job, and I imagine
neither of us would like the guy

who’d be left in my skin
once that had happened.
Best to not even entertain
such thoughts.  Best

to pass as ships in broad daylight
with plenty of distance between us.
I don’t even know how I got on this,
and it’s time to let it go.