Here we are in the heart of it, love, 
  the hearkened rise of    aurulent dawn 

           all space and    weight    dissolved 

a denouement written with    lips and fingertip 

            on familiar curve and crevice. 

The blue morning    imbues the room 

with prismatic iridescence,    ascendant

       luminescence over our    languid bodies, 

            violet moons    under our eyes and 

tired limbs intertwined. 

Were it not for    a pale hair in the brush, 

      hasty photographs on a cracked screen

      or the lingering    sweat imprinting your body 

on the tattered mattress,    I’d believe 

          I had    dreamed it    all-

What but grace,    its tenderness without 

provenance or promise of tomorrow, 

     could answer for the    low moan    of breath 

and bones    restless    upon the quilt, 

quiet laughter in place    of attended sorrow? 

I understand now, the miracle 

that speaks not of light 

              but of what it shines upon. 

Here we are at the narrow doorstep 

of resolution    and remembrance.

      A brush of skin    brought out of shadow, 

                      inocciduous morning stars 

that cross but do not   



For Gloria

Make this pilgrimage with me one more time,
gnarled feet and transient hearts
treading towards that final, ineffable
expanse of sacred, a solitary temple
unfurling across impossible lengths,
aquamarine reliquary of nameless bones
and corroded vessels. We will go,
like so many other foreign homes
with oars and rope in hand,
the litany of names glittering on our lips
and an X
marking the zenith
of our surest, remembered hope.

I can already see us there ma belle,
the swell of water up to our waists
a hint of wisteria curling over the waves,
running our hands over their faces
and calling tenderly their names
with every crash and cry that wrecks
the thallassic landscape, anchored
in the shallow end of the deepest chasm
that we conquered, once,
before we had the world to lose-