We are the stories we tell–
Even this one
we weave together.

Our beautiful words
dance with each other
and our love multiplies.

This sun, this moon,
this moss-covered womb
from which love awakes.

To know you now,
(Why not then? But still … now!)
The butterflies have multiplied.
I catch them with your net–

cupped hands, night of your gossamer stars,
in which all the creatures sleep–
their breasts peacefully heave,
as so does my heart,
as so does the smile I wrought on your face,
from horizon to horizon bowed–
wide valley with my soul-river running through it.

Mistress city
my fingers trace
your long highways–
soft as Persian carpets.
Your spires lure
your lamps conspire
your thousand eyes
glitter behind neon and fogged glass–
each an eager conversation–
hushed whispers that leap like young gazelles,
whipping up a tempest of longing on the hot savanna.
What lion would favor the Sultan’s banquet to your fevered flesh?

All the world is in your eye
that bends like a reed;
the wind–your brush,
the canvas–seed.

With what strokes the world is made
the downy moon, the sun inlaid,
and fields of lemon freckled jade.

And ‘though I’m fearless,
and dance among the dying days,
in you, I’m seen–
your pastels, ring’d–
such joy and solace for my westering heart!

There are moments that linger in the memory.
Such a moment I think is this.
She stood upon a precipice–
to fly or to fall,
and unfolded herself before me,
exposed and offered up her foetal want–
“Will you accept this?” she asked.

She stepped out into space,
and of course, I caught her as she fell,
and lifted her up into the sun
where I now know we both wanted to be.

I knew from that moment I had always loved her.
I had loved her before even setting eyes upon her.
She is an archetype shimmering in my pre-memory–
Something I knew before I could know it.

The world turned back ’round
and said, “You’ve suffered long enough, old man.”

May I say that I love you?
The words vault, skitter, and chase
each other like butterflies,
and seep out of me,
out of every pore.

I may say them,
if I say them unashamed,
and with earnest heart.

Ah me … you, this strange, singular life.
To love and be astonished by it.