It must be some clever ruse that has his arms outstretched
as he calls me back from the door about to separate us —
Or could it be his heart burns & its flames extend toward me?
Be it both or neither, what does it matter?
Yes, let him hold me.
In those arms are my own desires satisfied.
And in those arms, arrested by a warmth that rises in degrees
with mine, I imagine that from us two radiates out a tribute, one
bright as the light from the bubbling core of that life-supporting,
brilliant, spherical, white-hot, yellow dwarf that is the sun.
For an instant, me snuggled there,
Us sending out this beacon,
I forget there are people in the world
commanding others to pull out all the stops,
to take, take take, hate, hate, hate, kill, kill, kill.
Happy to rest my head on his firm chest, I feel
his heart pound, and this gift overcomes doubt:
He is — we are — that something greater,
warmer, more lasting than the lost soul — he
who digs craters inch by inch to bedevil our world.
But if the lost ambitiously fill such pits with pain,
from pleasure mountain I will stream gently, agape.
And as it is given me, I shall claim it, share it,
and in beloved’s arms recreate it.
You also . . .
love, love, love, and we will pull through the night.