Something New Under the Sun

　　by Steve Scafidi

　　 It would have to shine. And burn. And be

　　 a sign of something infinite and turn things

　　 and people nearby into their wilder selves

　　 and be dangerous to the ordinary nature of

　　 signs and glow like a tiny hole in space

　　 to which a god presses his eye and stares.

　　 Or her eye. Some divine impossible stretch

　　 of the imagination where you and I are one.

　　 It would have to be something Martin Buber

　　 would say and， seeing it， point and rejoice.

　　 It could be the mouth of a Coca-Cola bottle

　　 or two snakes rolling down a mountain trail.

　　 It would have to leap up out of the darkness

　　 of a theater and sing the high silky operatic

　　 note of someone in love. And run naked

　　 slender fingers through the hair of a stranger，

　　 or your mother or father， or grandfather， or

　　 a grassy hill in West Virginia. It would live

　　 on berries and moss like a deer and roam

　　 the woods at night like the secret life of

　　 the woods at night and when the sun rises you

　　 could see it and think it is yours and that

　　 would be enough and it would come to you

　　 as these words have come to me--slowly，

　　 tenderly， tangibly. Shy and meanderingly