This is the house of my beloved.
These are her shuttered eyes, the closed door
of her lips. This is the kitchen in which I sit
silent as tables, safe as breakfasts,
reckless as a feast.
These are her limbs, rooted
in the firm ground of her body, beneath which
I cannot travel. Try as I might, I cannot grow
beyond her garden. These are the limits
of knowing, the boundaries of belief,
the margin of the world outside
my skin. Still, there are ways in;
the pulley of her breathing,
the patient stairwells of touch.
I think I do not ask for much.
I think her peaks still desire
to be roofed, a carpet of affection laid
across the tarnished flooring. I?d like
to find her in the hall, throw the curtains
wide, allow the night to enter.
This is the road to my beloved, arterial
highway to her centre. This is how
I come to her tonight, drifting
through the wide valley of slumber.
Arriving at her threshold, guided
by the one lamp in her bedroom
window. This is the house, and these
are the rafters of our days erected
side by side, the shiver of a door gently
parted, letting the warm light spill.