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“I’m not the kind of heaven you thought you’d find,”
the sky said, spreading itself across the floor

here, in the kitchen, its gold leaf freaked and split
as it appeared and disappeared and stained

the morning with its radiance.
—————————-“And furthermore,

you’re not my idea of a prophet or a sage.
But here we are, plain-speaking in blank verse.

Look, I’m all the transcendence you will find today
if you’ll just step into my shifting path—

light, shadow, light—chiaroscuro, painters call it.”
And this is when the dust motes spin, haloes

each one, around an angel on the air,
and this is how my story suspends, there

where I am leaping, dancing, rising as I speak,
no difference between my step and the supernal,

every note a grace note, that deep, high music.

The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

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