I’d been thinking of the veins
On the back of the hand:
A photo I’d seen of a woman
Clutching her baby in Darfur;
An old man, eyes closed,
Palming his forehead on the metro;
Ignatius in the painting clasping
A crucifix to his chest—the veins blue,
Raised like mole-runs
In soft earth. I was driving past
The Safeway, when something—a slit,
A scent—car window down, crickets’
Monkey-chatter, sun
Low orange—and soon
Siphoned-in cool and dark,
The rind and color of everything.
And I thought of the light
Coming into my office
Through two bent slats in a window-
Blind I couldn’t fix
And felt whatever You want.
