It’s easy
— watching
languid candle
flame
warm the
milk-wan
body,
midnight
hair cascading,
framing
the face
that’s haunted
your
dreams —
to tell
yourself
God has
led you here,
His
metaphors and signs
garlanding
a poppy chain of
destiny — that
the
dark eyes
searching
your own,
so close they
merge,
will
always regard you thus —
that
morning will never come,
its cares,
its quotidian glare —
and lovers
carved
one from
the other
never have
to
part.
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