I hear you moving low the adjacent room
and breathing the ancient name.
The ground of my youth trembles.
I hear the wild sinless death and smell
sweet the ancient flowers, come home
from hayfields to sweat near a bride.
I hear the crushing slow moan of stars
sanding against particles of light —
filtering the wind — a cool blue space
against my neck.
I illuminate the generations. I house them.
You are their God —
— the literal translation to an old forgotten
language about love and trust — and
sometimes, the ability for a finite me to
believe in a forever you.
jP2020
