A dozen dents reside in the wooden ceiling
and the cellar holds a hundred turned bottles of wine
while the twin birds of rain song and night song herald
a heaven of hazed radiance hidden in every imperfection
of flesh and construction and mind.
I fall at your feet and admire you. The prayer of signatures
around the eyes and lips. The winter world’s lamppost
and the sweet water’s compass. You’re writ upon
the under table. You are stone and water.
You move and cannot move.
It is your oldest law.
A dark play.
I love the you that no one can see or touch or discover
without invitation and agility of soul to smell the veiled lines
of your name.
A beauty like no other.
A beauty that is other.
A twin bird in empty bottles bottling up the rain and night
resounding through the roof over our heads, singing its own strange song.
The water’s secret sign
through which all the words run sweet again
is simply you by another name: beloved friend.