Poem for Sarah's Bath

In truth, we're attached

to the bodies we dream.

Nobody will ever be

anybody else. Local,

gorgeous awareness

is all we are,

passing details, passing

shows are all we have,

dreaming our theaters

in which our worlds perform

their matinees

and moonlight sonatas

over which we exert

no more control

than a theater space

exerts over its performances,

and no less. A lizard

scuttles in the sunny dust

of a rented window.

An infant snores

on her old father's

bony chest. Somewhere,

the woman of the house

is drawing a bath,

and the red and green valley

warms in late January sun.

These are not parts

of a world, nor

a world entire.

These are waves passing,

which are not waves

when we capture them

but are waves again

when we allow them, being

ourselves, spaces

for some things to happen.