In the amber, rain-dappled cube of traffic lights
you tell me what tattoos you want. You tell me
your favourite colour. You say chartreuse and viridian
should be the other way around, and I agree.
I enjoy seeing you in a crowd of people I don’t know.
It’s like going to an alien planet
and amidst the extra-terrestrial architectural preferences
of a tripedal species, seeing a mossy parish church.
It’s like translating an ancient Aramaic scroll
and finding the lyrics to the ‘Friends’ theme song,
or deep-sea diving for oysters, prying one-off black rock,
and opening it to the mood ring you lost
when you were ten.
I never know what I’m trying to tell you. Maybe that I wish
I had omnipotence, omniscience, omni-benevolence—
so everyone could know you are favoured,
God-chosen; I would turn rivers to honey, spell it out
You would turn your friend-shaped face
to the bird-filled sky and wonder who this was
that God so loves.