— Diane Lee Moomey

not master, not sir, but precious:
we call you that. Now we ask
not “who” are you, but “what?”

Transparency — the faintest outline,
skin of bubbles blown from a child’s pipe — only that
marks the space we love to call you.

Within that space, what?
Really, what?

Nobody’s in there, and yet
there’s light, sometimes, or heat.
If I am asked again, what?
and pressed for a reply, I will say
light only, or heat, nothing else,

and clear. Your presence
a pause in the daily news — an iris,
and seen through that iris
a range of impossible peaks.

And also, occasionally seen:
midnight rooms, where aliens couples, naked,
make love
by the light of multiple moons.

One thought on “Precious

  1. I know that space, it’s the one we call very fortunate to have but I do like "precious" too. Maybe we’ll think both next time it’s here. Very well written. The first time I read it I didn’t get it either but my poetic eyes open precious slowly.

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