There’s nowhere for the color
Of my subtle body’s skin
To go, and it can’t be replicated
On a flag or a veil.
But it can be bruised,
Like an ocean’s dusk
Is that thin, and seen from
The gland, the third
Kaleidoscopic eye. Maybe loved ones
Form a collage of photos on the wall
Of your cubicle; maybe it’s the babies
Who drive your second sight;
A place for your inner voice to be held
Like a child, winged and joyful.
Service to our nation might leave you
Sleeping on concrete, until your white spaceship
Takes you away. And even if things
Don’t seem to be in the right places,
Maybe your third eye becomes the ship:
You hold on tight as it flies
You over a parking lot of Christmas trees.
