The Curtain

On some nights I sit in my backyard,
my head turned away
from the only window I can see from where I sit.
My head is turned, not because of what the window reveals,
but because the window is draped with red curtains
and I’m afraid that one day
the curtains will be drawn aside.
Maybe there will be a woman undressing,
or something equally
cliché
which is the name we’ve given to our fear
that the book of Ecclesiastes is right:
there’s nothing new under our sun;
everything is a quiet repetition of the same;
the starry dynamo in the machinery of night
is a box full of cogs,
and after counting every tooth
we’ll no longer burn for heavenly connection.
What if Moses felt the same way?
What if God offered to show himself to Moses in all of his glory
yet Moses chose to hide himself in the cleft of the rock?
What if all he wanted was a glimpse,
just a hint,
just the backside glory?