pours across the floor, over the white belly of the orange cat

dust sparkles different colors, the contours

of your body flow so undulantly, swinging your ample breasts

that I am carried away from strife

into a realm of light that touches your skin without a sound.

Water rushes and rings in the basin, splashing --

everywhere this miracle touches the world

and the world does not answer -- yet the light

touches it, causing an urge to recreate it in song or picture

to pass it on, and yet it does so quietly

leaving you free to ignore it, to lie in the blind mud of worry.

It makes me laugh, it is the beauty I will summon

as I go to the grave, laughing, expectantly.