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.