DAYS IN GREENPOINT
I don't believe there is anything God wants.
This morning, the pretty blonde girl at the bakery,
serving me, small bright crucifix around her neck
on a thin gold chain, her elbows right angles
for the sun to pass through. Perfection.
And from the door wide open
the air blew in
from the back of the river
Brooklyn wild honey,
the smell of sugar, her mouth exhaling
baby-blue, barely passable English.
Unmistakable. I was young once too.
The girl's bony arm jangling the penultimate bracelet
of her knobby wrist,
charms so small, I couldn't make them out.
Ten days in Greenpoint now
and each morning what I want
is this ripe goddess girl
with a passion that should be divine.
We are all faces of the same God.
His face is
her face in mine.
D U S I E