Sometimes when you
are not looking at me
I soften my gaze as if
I might see right through
the layers of you to the center.
Perhaps I think I will find
an orchard there, in bloom,
of course, tiny pink flowers
on the blackened branches
of peach trees, or perhaps
I think I will find there a river
undammed and unmapped
and a small red boat with two oars.
And sometimes if I am very
still and very soft I
see in you a puddle
of darkness. And when
I am soft and still and very
brave I dare to put a toe
into the pool and then,
miraculous, I touch the infinite
darkness.