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I have a friend who commits himself to one full hour of poetry writing every day.
I don't know who he thinks he is,
jerk!, early-riser recluse,
he's no religious realist.

I too would give myself away
if not held in by plans and a picture window pointing West
where the sky has lived throughout the day
without me noticing.

Letting me inside, the lovers eye will not release,
it presses warm upon the skin of poems within
while I in countless coming moments
will betray that touch and truth and beauty,

Feeling myself the worst of perpetrators
having turned from the purple dusk
to hear the sigh of God
wishing I had never glanced.