— 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?
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,
by the light of multiple moons.