Current

You’re no astronomer
if you’ve never witnessed
a full moon from a Louisiana swamp.
Any time I felt I had a soul,
it was the color of those craters.
What’s out there is in here, right?
And the view from every telescope depends
on where your feet are.
Turns out, as I grew old, I had something like a tumor, I guess,
but it was an empty medieval church, so the voices maybe
weren't out there after all, but in here, something yelling
from inside, with all the saints painted flat with gold
looking stunned at what was being said. A voice
from the universe that had not been pre-approved,
not so much from the altar, not so much the pews,
up from the old stone tiles on the floor, in ghost flight,
that whooshed out the door, blew the candles shut.
You see, we’re an extension cord to everything else.
Energy moves. And moonlight and marsh circulate
through a man until he’s wattage and make-believe.
The moon directs rhythms here on Earth, playing it
like a drumset. Heartbeat, stomp of feet, memories
of music played rough and sweet, sound of glass
breaking every time someone bubbled up a smile,
fish dancing up and out of water, buzzing insects,
chattering birds, and love slippery fine as moss
on river rock tripping everybody up.