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 grassy¹ hill in West Virginia. It would live

    on berries and moss² 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， tangibly³. Shy and meanderingly.