No greater turbulence than light restores
The postures of our loving as within
A ceremonial noon
We pause and of all noons take reckoning;
At last our reckless songs
Subside, and in these galleries appears
The one skylight that clears
All questioning; at last
A quietness happens like dark light through glass
Distinctly seen. The lovers have fared well
Who know remembrance is a ritual.
Between the candle and the mirrored flame
The air preserves a staunch relationship
That, while it burns, bears up
The hour of wine and gestures. For the will
Is unpredictable,
And love, a pearl that grows in rhythms, some
More personal than dreams,
Shines like a keepsake passed
Between us, back and forth, a pearl whose cost
We doubt till it is bitten; then we know
The fine extravagance of being two.
Between, between our facing faces, not
Upon them, the secret of our loving lies,
For intricate disguise
Weighs on the private eyelid; only between
Lip, look and its twin
Our landscapes hang like flowers in a net
Or stars in a lucky night
Whose wishbone winds foretell
Miraculous constancy. Love’s windowsill
Gestures securely; silent face to face,
We span whatever countryside we choose.
No matter what landscape, it hangs like a net
Between your face and mine. Clowns, animals,
Flowers, whatever else
Blooms in this season are suspended there
As sunlight on a tear
That never falls. Our quietness draws it taut
Until the net is not
Wielded in eagerness
But holds rich action with our memories,
Or as a trellis may have moved through time
Until with morning-glories it stands overcome.
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