11-18-2008 Betty Likes the Present Tense

Your ankles intersect the ground the same
as any others might. But none can reach
capriciously, ascending knees to frame
the worlds where they have walked, so well as each

of yours. Ribbons would split were they to slip
around horizons like your thighs. No bow
could ever bind the heavens like your hips.
Crude bundles hold a single murmur. Low

and gentle moans like yours unfold from where
the present ends and futures blush. And you
can no more hush the swelling sighs than tear
the thunder from a stormy night. Up through

the calm there calls a clear ecstatic voice
by which the whirling firmaments rejoice.