All That is Beautiful

All that is beautiful is backwards to you now,
her hair, her smile, laughing like a pristine
and impossible angel.
Everything a negative film, the whites black, the lights dark,
a stunned, electric blue
makes up the sky. It makes you grit your teeth.

Perhaps church people come to your door,
knock hard and ring the bell, like they are doing now
on mine. My ears are hot. I want no confrontation.
And neither do you. Nothing but a drugged sleep panorama
spanning into something clear, rain-washed, and everything all right
for once.

If I had opened that door (I already know what you are going to say,
and I agree,
and I hopelessly assent,
and am disgusted),
if I had opened my window instead,
I would have been a no within a yes.

So I fold my arms, watch from a distance
as the proselytizers migrate, stoop to stoop.
If we believe it matters,
enough flowers shot with good aim
pierce the ribs at last.
And beauty rights itself.