Epiphany
A momentary rupture to the vision:
the wavering limbs of a birch fashion
the fluttering hem of the deity’s garment,
the cooling cup of coffee the ocean the deity
waltzes across. This is enough—but sometimes
the deity’s heady ta-da coaxes the cherries
in our mental slot machine to line up, and
our brains summon flickering silver like
salmon spawning a river; the jury decides
in our favor, and we’re free to see, for now.
A flaw swells from the facets of a day, increasing
the day’s value; a freakish postage stamp mails
our envelope outside time; hairy, claw-like
magnolia buds bloom from bare branches;
and the deity pops up again like a girl from
a giant cake. O deity: you transfixing transgressor,
translating back and forth on the border
without a passport. Fleeing revolutions
of same-old simultaneous boredom and
boredom, we hoard epiphanies under the bed,
stuff them in jars and bury them in the backyard;
we cram our closet with sunrise; prop up our feet
and drink gallons of wow!; we visit the doctor
because all this is raising the blood’s levels of
c6h3(oh)2chohch2nhch3, the heart caught
in the deity’s hem and haw, the oh unfurling
from our chest like a bee from our cup of coffee,
an autochthonous greeting: there. Who saw it?
