ecstacy and god

Charles Simic

Night Picnic

There was the sky, starless and vast—

Home of every one of our dark thoughts—

Its door open to more darkness.

And you, like a late door-to-door salesman,

With only your own beating heart

In the palm of your outstretched hand.

All things are imbued with God's being—

(She said in hushed tones

As if his ghost might overhear us)

The dark wood around us,

Our faces which we cannot see,

Even this bread we are eating.

You were mulling over the particulars

Of your cosmic insignificance

Between slow sips of red wine.

In the ensuing quiet, you could hear

Her small, sharp teeth chewing the crust—

And then finally, she moistened her lips. 

 Gian Lorenzo Bernini - Ecstasy of St. Teresa, ca. 1647-52

Street of Jewelers
by Charles Simic, from Night Picnic

What each one of these hundreds
Of windows did with the gold
That was melting in them this morning,
I cannot begin to imagine.

I act like a prospective burglar
Noting the ones that are open,
There curtains drawn to the side
By someone stark naked,
I may have just missed.

Here, where no one walks now,
And when he does, he goes softly,
So as not to tip the scales
In the act of weighting
Specks of dust in the dying sunlight.