his face turns from his crucified body
to a swimmer leaping arms outstretched
through a sentient sky. What we become
is reflected in the dry ground we strive
to transcend like smoke’s ecstatic dance
or the murmur of starling’s pulsing
across a morning’s autumnal sky.
If I say George Washington’s face manifests
in the sky, diaphanous white clouds
woven in deepest blue, shall I mistake
your laughter for delight more than derision?
Could I turn the clouds outside my window
into the countless things they are not,
like the words I wish I had said to you?
(January 26, 2017)
subtext 