What if?, you seem to ask.

What if instead of trying to prove it, I finally let something prove itself. Let everything move as it does, be as it is. Where would I go? Who would I be?

Strangest dream: Running late for the symphony, my unhurried soul wanders a department store. It’s empty now and I wonder if they’re closed. No matter—here I am—trying on clothes I never believed I could wear. “And what is this exquisite garment?” I politely ask, trying to belong to another time. “It’s a cliche,” she says, straightening the sleeve.

Even so, I like the fit. I find the mirror and for once I don’t look away. Can I wear it home? Walking toward the light of the mall, I float past the racks, casting waves of good feeling across the inventory. Arms out, like a kid.

Is it wrong to love a smoke-colored moon? Will the new telescope show us the very beginning? Am I allowed to laugh?

The guilt is everywhere now. The pain hides in every friend. There is no question as to the fire, but can we let it burn? Can we summon the blood?

Your answers are minted in sorrow, falling softly across these nights in America. But they whisper of a petal’s slow faith in our still-living world. An innocence after everything, even this. A godless reverie—maybe. But a prayer, once more. What a shell might say to a stone.

And so forgive me, but what else? What else will you speak through my night window?