TEN DAYS IN GREENPOINT

I don't believe there is anything God wants. 

This morning, the pretty blonde girl at the bakery, 

serving me, small bright crucifix around her neck

on a thin gold chain, her elbows right angles 

for the sun to pass through. Perfection. 

And from the door wide open 

the air blew in 

from the back of the river 

Brooklyn wild honey, 

the smell of sugar, her mouth exhaling 

baby-blue, barely passable English. 

Unmistakable. I was young once too. 

The girl's bony arm jangling the penultimate bracelet 

of her knobby wrist, 

charms so small, I couldn't make them out. 

Ten days in Greenpoint now

and each morning what I want 

is this ripe goddess girl 

with a passion that should be divine. 

We are all faces of the same God. 

His face is her face in mine.