In its wavy scrim heat becomes visible and things, illusory
like the low-slung strip of buildings where the
sidles up to The Dollar Store. Somewhere
miracles are occurring.
The squirrel is not being raped,
small feet not triggering unattended mines.
My friend’s wife is not missing
So much is a search
for the imagined. The purse, shoes and empty
bottle trailing neatly to a door. The plumb line dropped
to center. The self as much a ghost
as language or time or God.
Clouds not shuffling past like penitents.
New leaves not murmuring the wind like mystics beyond speech.
For one blessed moment, the sky—
lucid and free of suffering.
(On Receiving Word, Finishing Line Press, 2008)
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