Many Mornings After

I sit behind the steering wheel, in the parking lot of the grocery store and think of paradise. I see you instead of angels, the shadowy places of the room we loved in, small as a postage stamp, and recall how your kisses moved me to the edge of ecstasy-- a place as foreign as paradise. Through the windshield I watch a man spit on the asphalt in front of me and take the hand of a woman with dirty hair. I wonder if she minds him at all-- I wonder if she thought of paradise today.