They call it mystic when the body retires, clambers in air
With twisted spine or cataracts, as if God was nothing
But a lazy finger reading Braille without discernment.
On clear days condensation at the window
Is the best place to write, one thinks of childhood
With its hundredth of a second, posed and waiting
When there was no promise at all—not of the body
You’d become, nor of butterflies or angels,
Just the delicacy, writing across a living sunbeam.