All dreams of the soul
End in a beautiful man’s or woman’s body.
— Yeats, “The Phases of the Moon”
Whenever we wake,
still joined, enraptured —
at the window,
each clear night’ s finish
the black pulse of dominoes
dropping to land;
whenever we embrace,
haunted, upwelling,
I know
a reunion is taking place —
Hear me when I say
our love’ s not meant to be
an opiate;
helpmate,
you are the reachable mirror
that dares me to risk
the caravan back
to the apogee, the longed-for
arms of the Beloved —
Dusks of paperwhites,
dusks of jasmine,
intimate beyond belief
beautiful Signor
no dread of nakedness
beautiful Signor
my long ship,
my opulence,
my garland
beautiful Signor
extinguishing the beggar’ s tin,
the wind of longing
beautiful Signor
laving the ruined country,
the heart wedded to war
beautiful Signor
the kiln-blaze
in my body,
the turning heaven
beautiful Signor
you cover me with pollen
beautiful Signor
into your sweet mouth —
This is the taproot:
against all strictures,
desecrations,
I’ ll never renounce,
never relinquish
the first radiance, the first
moment you took my hand —
This is the endless wanderlust:
dervish,
yours is the April-upon-April love
that kept me spinning even beyond
your eventful arms
toward the unsurpassed:
the one vast claiming heart,
the glimmering,
the beautiful and revealed Signor.