We aren’t supposed to speak your name. Not anymore. Or describe a glowing river of clouds that drift by you like code. Still, you manage the bright hole
through which a perfect lunacy shimmers and without dark monologue. We aren’t supposed to use your image– not anymore. You’re beyond reach,
but you manage the brightness. Even if you are only a hand mirror in some nonexistent heaven, it’s easier to love you from afar.