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The footsteps of the Lord

In the garden. I know

The drill: I pull on my skin

And try to act human,

Knowing you’ve already noticed

The difference between the creature I am

And the creature you thought

You were breathing yourself into

On the sixth day, at evening. I know

You will clothe my nakedness, tender

But also disappointed

That I need to feel something

Other than naked

When nakedness is the image

In which I was created, the image

I see through your see-through robe

Of shy young stars

That sing very quietly

So as not to drown

Your image singing inside them.

You want me to see you

Picking your way

Through the garden of my body.

You try so hard

To be seen. I try so hard not to be

One of your hopes

Staring hungrily through the leaves.

I talk to you incessantly

But you can count on the fingers

Of the hand you don’t have

The times I’ve heard you answer. Occasionally

I’m blinded

By your beauty. One blink

And the reassuring

Lids of life

Close over you again. Now

I have no life to lid

The terrifying continent of your longing

To meet a gaze

That meets your gaze

Naked and unashamed, an image of you

That can stand the sight

Of the image it was made in.