The factory lights
reflected on the river:
they shimmer and quiver
and turn into long, widening strokes.
They dance
upon the water,
they glimmer and shiver,
swaying and jumping about. And
the longer I look, the less I see.
They turn into blurs, into fuzzes,
and the branches in front of my face
turn into part of them. Then
my eyes re-focus and I keep watching:
the flat river is somehow transformed
and the lights don't shoot across,
they plummet down
into somewhere deep that
I don't know (how
did the river get turned on its side?).
That's what it looks like. Then
my eyes re-focus and I think:
If I were closer to the light-beams on the water,
say, if I were suspended only two feet above them,
it would not be beautiful.
It would be frantic: when the water angled just right,
it would be one sudden flash of too-bright light,
but this happening all around like some obnoxious something-or-other,
and I wouldn't want to be there
(And I didn't even notice it's chilly outside).
Luke suspends me two feet above
the woman of the greater love:
she is not beautiful:
her hair is matted
as it wipes His feet,
her tears are cloudy
as they fall on His feet,
her lips are dry and cracked and bloody
as they kiss His feet. But
then i never want to cut my hair again,
tell me how to turn it into a washcloth,
and i want to purchase ointment in an alabaster flask
and ask and ask and ask
(And i didn't even notice i wasn't breathing).
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