(for LY)

    You must believe this coming home
    already a gift. The exact hour always
    a faint surprise. Our greeting at the gate
    one kindness exchanged for another.

    The day has been long. Leave it
    by the door with your careful shoes.
    It is alright for your daily baggage
    to slump on lifeless chairs and suffer
    the inquisition of cats. The house,
    cleaned or uncleaned, a place
    we remembered to be happy.

    Soon you will start a laundry pile
    of still-warm clothing, proffer to air
    your bare testimony of skin.

    The kitchen perfumes with dinner.
    Believe me, this hour is heavy
    with musk -- your hands, these morsels,
    the music of plates and glasses.

    Do you know I sometimes watch you
    doing the dishes, the least
    poetic of gestures; that when I close
    to your side, the room is fuller?

    Then even this city need be
    nothing more than it is, calm
    enough to fill with our own night,
    the sky bearing an armful of stars
    so many thoughtful roses.

13 October 2001   00:00 hours
in search of a poetry { } religion