distance indicated by degrees of blue
       

I mean, we're here. Under this paling
chandelier of stars. All the moons
are out tonight, and you

have never been more beautiful.
Forget it all. This shadow
planet, our clockless

passage, the mirage of rapture.
We're waiting on nothing.
Nothing is our God

aperture, the gap by which
we know we exist, still, see
our fusing bodies

a titanium dialect make. A light
refuge. Watch the rapturous giraffes
maraud in the shallows.

We're too busy or far for God now.

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Copyright © 2019 Marty McConnell All rights reserved
from when they say you can't go home again, what they mean is you were never there mean is you were never there
Southern Indiana Review Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission