Technicolor shades of Kodachrome-induced
mordant dyestuff; tint neon; blue the hue
of windshield washer fluid; yellow exclusively
nuclear. A lighthouse on the moon, but not any
moon, a moon that encircles a paint factory,
where the brushes bristle over who revolves
around whom. Translucent green reeds grip
the water’s edge and bend their top-heaviness
toward the centrifuge of radiation fallout.
And that celestial body that hovers over
gossamer-wing clouds? A giant breast?
Or a white chocolate Hershey Kiss? Same
thing. It’s all the same thing: sex and food,
art and god. Did I say gossamer wing? Dickinson
used the word tulle to denote the ethereal, but even silk
is too heavy with the weight of this world; even prayer
gets short-circuited, translated into sound waves
that can never caress the shore no matter how electric.
god in her own way. Still, Moses had to be told.
Is it any wonder we haven’t learned yet?
(The above appears in a very different form in the spring 2013 issue of Map Literary.)