Here

-

HERE

         

— for Emerson


Even here—a picnic table beneath

a tree outside the mother-baby


unit—one might but briefly 

supercede (or rather, supra-see)


our dim criteria for sight. 

The fallout of a sleepless night?


Perhaps. But look!, the parking lot

is crowded now with presence not


our own, choked with something thick 

akin to glory, cicadas piercing like


a baby’s cry through this half-

sleep we once deemed deep enough. 


Eyelids flutter to a newborn 

apprehension that the God is far 


more here and real—among other things—

than we would ever dare to conceive.

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