Saturday, April 14, 2012
a spirit's sanctuary?
a Heaven of sorts
In your Manhattan you insist my skyscraper
prayers have a head start. On this angel high floor,
your lashes turn gossamer; our voices never touch
ground. Lightning appears to applaud you;
thunder claps and I get closer. Elements shift;
darkness lifts. Love, you say, is tumultuous.
I watch as you point; a hawk
carries raindrops on the tops of its wings.
I look down to see
what Dedalus might have seen. And I’m frightened
as you press me against a window sixty
stories up. You tell me love
is a parachute if I’ll let it be. And I know
I have nowhere to flee, no way to escape
this, your confines of the sacred.