Slow Song

I love the way you enter a room, as if
You were suddenly in love with everything in it.
I love your eyes: greener than any grass, hot blood of emeralds
Burning into me, until they wound me
Into wisdom.

I love the way you speak.
The rainbow blood of your words is the only transfusion
I can take. If there is a voice
For the secret longings of the sky
It is yours.

Your solitudes are a twilight I hope
I can never leave, your hands
Are as gentle as the eons that lured
The first of us out of the sea.

Your mind is a flower flaring toward infinity,
The way a galaxy flowers
In the palm of God.

When you are angry, I am a scrap of paper, a poem,
Blown by the winds of your aimless beauty.
Your moods are like the laws of the winter seas.

In your presence, the very air
Stiffens into fragrance,
My poems dissolve like the snow
Of your wrists in my hands.
And then the words begin again, the love
Like votive candles lit
Behind your pagan eyes.

As always, the soft dusk of your body
Summons stars. In my arms every night,
You remind the angels that silence
Is also a slow kind of singing.