My bones take their bend from the curve of the moon--
your silence is as rich as the knife's edge or its ivory handle.
I am the little nightjar on your silver-lit lawn.
You are the surf forming itself into patterns of lace.
I am the Gypsy, keeping your heart in a deep red velvet pouch, loose and open;
held in my fine nightblind fingers to the life-warmth at my breasts,
two hearts, ours,
each with a scarce rare beat.
I speak your name, I open.
You speak my name, it comes back.
The stars themselves turn
on such language as this.
I will always be yours.
Your hair is my dark bed to adore and seek out--
I am set off there, a small star,
a celestial navigation of skin and soul.
Together, we are the safe-place despaired of and then born
in this strange fire that dares to build as it burns.