Halfway

Halfway to Heaven, 
the heavens—not too high, mind you, 
but a rung above the quotidian sky—
at that heady altitude where cobalt blue 
blushes to blue-black and the earth 
curves away from itself 
like a gigantic tongue
lapping at the glitter-dust of stars.

Not at some dizzying height, that is, 
because it’s grace that one is after, 
not the icy certitudes of space. 
And the rapture-zone is a narrow band, 
a halfway place of contemplation, 
where you are neither 
point-blank on top of things, 
nor too remote above them, 

but at that precise and reverential distance 
where shapes begin to coalesce: 
a blue-green ball adrift the vacancy of space, 
an earth-egg hatching from the womb-like night—"
but not yet fully hatched, that’s the point. 
Not the static blatancy of fact, but the latency 
of Mystery—a chick still pecking, half in the shell, 
half out.

Day Into Night

The slow-motion ripening of the night,
the way a heightened hush descends,
and pine trees trace their silhouettes 
against the dying light. A diving bird, 
a dash of bat, a firefly flash, and here 
and there an upstart star, that needles 
through the shell of dim as darkness swells
and lights switch on, a crescent moon 
that cracks a smile, then ducks behind 
some racing clouds, while west’s become 
a ruddy lip that readies for the final kiss.