Theophany
A poem
Oh, everywhere, of course, but
not so easily recognized sometimes; as when
leaving a party I had hoped not to attend,
trailing the heavy stir of voices and wine -
not there — I miss it at the threshold as I did
going in. Not in the indolence of those nights, not in
the branches with their limp following leaves
that move so slowly and without purpose in a breeze
rifling the belly fur of house cats lazy on the
furnace of summer;
not in the humid buzz of cicadas lying
on the air like the scent of tired blossoms
or in the secret smiles of sages, or the Tree of Life —
or that of crucifixion even, though on better nights
my prayers bloom from that center. The mystics know
the difference between knowing and belief
and that whether they touch me or no, what I love
seems never found in things touched, tasted or seen -
but on the walks I take long after dark
when, ghosted beneath the occasional streetlamp
my shadow, quickened by the light,
outstrips me.
