This poem took my breath away. LOVE this. I want to be here.


Our matchbox bedroom in the loft above your
     sculpture factory
Turns magical at times
Behind its dark blue Druid door.   Last night,
Inside you, sweetheart,
It felt as if I were coming from the soul itself.

And that Indian Summer Sunday afternoon a year
When the bed became a meadow
Of purple thistles, the honey hidden at the bottom
     of the stem
Farm kids know to find
For the sweetest suck of all.

And sometimes in the winter when the room turns
     into a Cornell box
Filled with the everyday miracles—
Soap bubble pipe and thimble, wooden rabbits
And old tan magazine illustrations of the Zodiac.
Or turns into an igloo in which the only place to

Is to burrow here below the yellow blanket and
     the pillows
To the South Pacific
Of ourselves.   And then those mornings on
Gentle as the feathers of a light spring rain, and
     at the same time hard, like the beak
Of a hawk.   You are where I belong.


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