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the tired bartenders and waiters
are inverting the last of the chairs

and giving rest to their legs
until tomorrow's piano sings soon.

but, there is You. here. and
the only one dancing is the smokiness

of others' escapism from reality
and do-dare-enter-ism into expanse.

oops---they just cut the lights, while
the last of the berry martini cascades

down your throat.
there is You. here. tenting the martini

upside down so it, too, can rest until
tomorrow.

     everything is quiet, is it?

i think there is still a song.
a smooth jazz that fills the bar

at every glance You graciously give.
there is You. here.

then there is us. leaving there.
we have left, but something

insists itself to stay.
there is You. here.

     and a song is still playing.

:::

fail yourself to think God is far;

the hum and the hummingbird;
the wave and the ocean;
the smile and the laugh;
the moon and the sun;
the flower and the flower's fragrance;

far?
wherever God is, you are;

the feather and the bird;
the sky and the star;
the heart and the dream;
the pain and the tears;
the rain and the rainbow;

all connected.
God the bow, and you---the arrow.

:::

all this time,
i have stumbled through the forest

like a drunk lumberjack
carrying firewood, but looking for fire.

in the past, i have awoken
feeling as though my skin was being scorched.

i turned in all directions---nothing.
why do my hands burn? this shirt is hot.

what is happening? my firewood lay
next to me as perplexed as i.

at present, i have awoken
feeling as though my skin is being scorched,

i turn in one direction---upward.
my hands are burning. this shirt is hot.

i know what is happening. my firewood lay
next to me as content as i.

all this time,
i stumbled through the forest

like a drunk lumberjack
carrying firewood, but looking for You.