Epiphany

Eyes open and he is standing,

Alone like ourselves in the street,

Gone and changed with every blink:

Now by that faraway silverbirch,

Now leaning (closer) against that lamppost,

Now standing, looking down at you,

Waiting.

Reach out hands and offer silence in the

Night’s empty, post-storm promise.

Warmth without body swallows numbing fingers,

Words roll delicately, gravely along,

Cascading with their soft Spanish slurs;

And when we open our eyes,

Nothing but the scattered rain and misty panes

Share the angel of your conscience.

6/January/2007