Two boys on
the bridge,

each, the other,
his;

they gaze across
the bay—

they could be there
one day.

Packed in the back seat of
your cramped Chevy Lumina,
and parked on the frontage road
behind the conifers
in your backyard—

the moon is low, a jaundice yellow,
the car is stalled, the heater grumbled;
you pull me in to warm me up,
my glasses fog,
you steal my smile—

[Your father, for his Sunday sermon,
packed the house—Leviticus:
“’Their blood shall be upon them,’ and
all God’s children said?”
“Amen.”]

Our breath condensed, whisper-white,
traced our initials on the window—
in after-laughing afterglow,
you swallow, nervous,
before you kiss me.

We don’t let go, till cabin lights
illuminate your father’s form—
the verse, full force, the wrath of God,
a hurricane—
a Horrible.

I never saw you afterward,
poor pastor’s son, where have you gone?
Like Pyramus, at the sight of blood
on Thisbe’s veil—
we don’t prevail.

And I'll forever affirm
There is no greater beauty
     Than the heavy silence
That accompanies the stagnant hymn
     Of a humble snowfall,
Bright against the murmuring
     Hum of a shadowy winter's night,

The world spinning slow,
     Frosty and quiet,
     Encased in white.

She compared me
To the sun,

And I felt nothing
But warmth

So it must be true.

With her hair
     Like the midnight Sky
And her eyes
     Gray as the hanging Moon

She told me I was bright like the Sun
     And I wished to create
A solar system together,
     Without any space between our orbits.