The Two of You


Your face is tense as wire within a wire
When you consent to bed with sunlight flying.
The dervish flashes up into the fire.
Not to be lost to love is to be dying.
Molten and greedy, quivering in my arms,
You gnaw, you tear, you moan beneath my prying.
Our veins are full of sunlight as a field.
Not to be lost to love is to be dying.
These fearful bodies rage against our will.
(Our love is truth and leaves no room for lying.)
These stones, these walls, this house, this windowsill
Are not to be lost. To love is to be dying.


Outdoors the breeze blows childlike, notwithstanding
Tomorrow it could be carrying sounds of war.
As we pass, we turn toward each other
Like lovers in a bed.
We preserve houseplants, growing creatures,
By constancy of warmth. In their season
Light airs are given entrance. We exclude only
The brazen winds that turn flesh into stone.
Nourished by our senses and attentions
This house will open up into a palace
Where children dress themselves in royal robes
And swagger with the certainty of angels.
To hear one another’s voices without speaking
Composes the music of this house. The time
Of storms is welcomed as a penance.
This house is silent and fragile as God.