what she sees

if I have something to say it will be delicate

it will be timed and placed to your breathing

as feeling forgiven now infinite

surging in a shallow night stealing

across our brows the icon holding still

with pleasure and pitched warnings

at our feet to bend there to our will

in wild unmoving storming

skies – We are here, we are belated

with birth, with the time taken

to find ourselves denatured

and vilified, fragrant

with desire; We are the womb-fed

children straddling the air, Naked

to our Own purposes here Shed

of all Pretense – We are glazed

with the terror of knowing, our eyes

slivers of your enduring

faith, these upturned ironies

of our cherished longing –

*