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