This,
the confirmation
of the already known.

The cementing of your love,
your own vivid blizzard
of it,

multi-sided shape
birthed from the collision,
theatre of hearts

that followed.
Now the premiere
of a new novel,

pages snow-white
to be set alight
by your shared language,

chapters written
by no other half,
but your whole.

yours is the music for no instrument
yours the preposterous colour unbeheld

—mine the unbought contemptuous intent
till this our felsh merely shall be excelled
by speaking flower
                      (if I have made songs

it does not greatly matter to the sun,
nor will rain care
                      cautiously who prolongs
unserious twilight)Shadows have begun

the hair’s worm huge,ecstatic,rathe….

yours are the poems i do not write.

In this at least we have got a bulge on death,
silence,and the keenly musical light

of sudden nothing….la bocca mia “he
kissed wholly trembling”

                              or so thought the lady.

I see you in my arms
when you bloom like the hawthorn,
mayflower after making it to the peak.

You exist because the moon
exists. The tyrant of time will not die
easily. Solitude prints a saga.

A mystic romance flourishes.
The moonlight comes on tiptoes
to kiss the sleeping deity out of the temple.