Naught Again Naught Enough

I can't prove a mystery
even to a true Catholic
Bred to prepare for miracles
Who still sees infernos and fabulae
In smokestacks and chiaroscuro in dark street corners
Who knows that snowflakes induce the descent of Angels
Who half believes today in the incandescence
Of Us

The child of Lovers waits, perhaps,
For the declarations of stars
And the teasing glance at the kitchen table
And some once-glimpsed
But unmistakable conflagration of the heart

The child of despair waits without hope
But, however surprised, immediately recognizes
The voice filling easily the heart cavity
Simple sliding revelations of mere kisses,
Certain when exposed

I cannot prove a mystery
Only the hole in space scrapes away the placeholder
Of these small and delicate
Damselfly wing connections that ignite
Our tiny filaments to wings

Naught, naught but thy ember-toned laughter
Naught, naught but thy amber-toned eyes
Naught, naught but the skin thy fingers hath forgot

The Man In the Moon

The Man In the Moon