I Don't Know What I might say

 

But it all works out. I guess. Truth is something I'm sure

I've never seen before, but the more time goes on, the

Less I'm inclined to believe in it. Still I don't want

To be one of those giving the finger to God

And begging for a showdown with an army of unfeeling

 

Angels. We were kicked out of heaven for having a

Healthy curiosity about the taste of things as they weren't

Presented to us. I think we made the right choice.

Taste buds demanded their freedom, and from there it was

Only a matter of time before others followed their prime

 

Example. Eyes, ears, lips, fingers, hair follicles all wanting to

Know more, more about the winds, more about the sun,

And the rain, more about themselves among the stars. It's

Okay to feel things more deeply than ever before. We

Chose to break the rules. It wasn't by accident. We

 

Wanted to know the rough unexpected skin of the road

We were on, even if it went unraveling under the

Doorway like a broken dam. We wanted to lift our

Unadorned faces up into the sky without flinching from fear.

That's the key. We don't want to live with nightmares of

 

Being thrown into a ditch for being out of line.

I created my own lines here. They may not make

A lot of sense to you right now, but I

Think you'll enjoy the flowers in the end. If not

There are plenty of other gardeners, including you, who are

 

Willing to grow something else for everyone out there. Either it's free

Or it's not. And that has nothing to do with

The cost. It's just an attitude, even as you are

Buying or selling the goods. I don't know what to

Tell you that you haven't already thought of all by

 

Yourselves. We are fallen from Grace, but we are always

Happily weaving our poems anyway. We are still holding

Onto sweet faces like jugs of lifesaving water and drinking

Deeply the impossibly beautiful light from each other's eyes. That's

Enough to prove to me this life is good enough.

Bonus poem:

You May Telephone From Here

There's something in the space you

are tonight that's for me a

real presence in my own life,

and so like any other

coward I write a poem

in vain. It will never be

seen as itself by you, but

possibly be mistaken

for an open window. Some

will definitely call it

furniture, some will wrongly

identify it as mere

photography, but it's a

hand, more specifically

my hand. It always was. True

friends long to touch each other

again. Sometimes the best we

can do is to reach out from

the room we are in, feeling

throughout our lives for the sweet

evidence that our love is

always coming through to us. 

In the meantime we fall

into deep dark sentences,

into words spoken to no

one in particular. I'll

send this anyway, as part

of both our worlds, if not the best.