the house of my beloved

    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.

30 November 2001   19:14 hours
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