a Journal of Poetry and the Arts
Morning light pours over you
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.