do not recognize
     transgression: they
          brush away latch and lock,
 
     cage and palisade—
kindle and re-kindle in
     willow and oak—bright-needle
 
the dusk drape that separates
     neighbor from neighbor. They
          capture children's somersaults
 
     lighting up the lawn,
the ardent lovers' flicker
     within the arbored porch,
 
the glimmer of the friend who
     at the last clasps your hand.
          Releasing the air, fireflies
 
     glide, everywhere winking
a refusal to be quenched,
     a ribbon work of night-lights
 
that threads the orchard fence—
     gleams among apple leaf
          and plum, weds intermingled
 
     blades of weed and seedy grass—
calling us to leave the locked
     boxes we would build of town
 
and nation—inviting us
     to wonder at semaphores
          of fire that summon beyond
 
     bar, beyond boundary
or bolt—that wrap us equal
     in gilt-threaded scarves of dark,
 
calling always to rejoice—
     to abandon division—
         to enter together   
 
the heaven of this earth.


This poem first appeared in Comstock Review (2008).
Used here with the author's permission.