You Can Fly Too Close To God.
YOU CAN FLY TOO CLOSE TO GOD
My mailman sees my letters,
who doesn't love me, how much.
The banker sees what I have
to lose. My doctor lays me down:
I breathe all the way in, all the way
out, past danger, past the shadow
where I'm unsure. You can fly too close
to God. People take off their shoes.
They fall asleep in the clouds.
The cable woman hugs the TV, kills
the sound. The man who unloads
oranges is unmoved by their perfection.
People turn my water off and on.
My teeth ache. Garbagemen, gravediggers,
people in masks. Those who check a room
for poisonous fumes, manufacture
drains--there are secrets to defend!
One full day of rain: my shirt soaked through,
fingertips blue, I don't trust the weatherman,
I don't trust the weather. A passing stranger
slides an umbrella into my hand.
Warm and wet from use, the red umbrella
blooms--over me, under a thick white strip
of reliable sky, and over the ants
significant for their strength.