John Grey

With the Impossible

I have watched you occupy every distance, as sun, mountain,
house on a hill, traffic lights on the midnight highway,
always at the edge, threatening to slip over the side
but somehow, the far space you let go of, you suddenly reoccupy,
as if even the miles between places have their limits,
when the naked eye is as naked as mine.
And yes, I've seen you float above the planet from time to time,
a simple aeration maybe brought on the rise of your breast,
or a quiet word in your ear from heaven, some of
that old firmament song, the angels picking you for their team,
but allowing you your home games on earth.
And another way you're not for me is your shine.
Who has ever caught a firefly? Or a second floor apartment
window for that matter? Or a face that could be a reflection
in the water for all the gathering these hands can do?
I’ve been intrigued by your footprints, the candy wrappers
in your trash bin, even what you recycle, none of which is you.
And I've expressed you in mathematical terms, found that I was
the margin of error. And in poems, well that goes without saying.
Perfect medium some would say. Leaves me to wonder how
a dentist does it. Or jackhammer guy. But even the poems
exist as some exalted therapy. And when did therapy ever get the girl?
I should leave you to your distance. Maybe the horizon is
the better fit after all. There goes the day with you in it.
Here comes the night. It's your return trip. The moon's rising,
floating and shining. I always knew you had it in you.