Taller than saint Peter
A lover
Stood on wooden stilts
Varnished in tangential light
I could have been blind, for you were not
A seraph but a dream.
But what of dreams, of tombs
of consecrated fiction-
A currency of lies
Demarcated latin
annuit coeptis.
And yet I was abounded by sleep
And who said there could not be
More on Heaven and Earth
Than in my philosophy
Of you.
And your blunted foundation
Quivering at the knees