When I returned,
My porch, of course, was inadequate.
A chair waited for me in the corner
Across from my burnt out porch light.
I easily could have it replaced,
Bring back with its garish light
The black bugs that used to whir and smack
Desperately against the eggshell stucco,
Lost and disoriented.
Looking for some way into the light.

When I craned my neck back
As people do when they are looking
For things not on this earth,
I was not giddy with disorientation.
My head did not, dizzyingly, spin.
I did not see the swollen moon held still for me,
Cradled by the oak tree branches,
Its filtered light falling  through the sieve-like leaves,
Dripping in  a soft, creamy glowing rain
Upon  a butterfly relaxing her glittering wings.

When I look out through my porch screen
I wish not to see in the streetlights
The sectioning of the worn streets,
The patterns of peoples' lives illuminated,
Their  nightly walks in the same directions
Stopping always at the same points.
Even while drunk, when the screen blurs,
On nights my people do not show,
I point my wavering finger at the screen.
Like a sad prophet I trace their wayward movements,
Extrapolate predictable lives upon a grid.

When I look out past the many screens
I have placed in front of me
And track my progress amongst the stars,
I do not wish to see the moon hung
Less importantly in my sky,
A desiccated yellow ball, frizzed and shrunken,
No more worthy of worship than a tennis ball
Dangling in a garage from a string.
I do not want this to be my stopping point.
I wish to feel again the kinds of things
That people (even in their silences) bring.
My porch, of course, is inadequate.

7/12/00 3:42 am