Every kiss is a
crown.
Our love is so
absolute
it creates a
world of its own
where it can
dwell, unconstrained.
It summons wishes
to walk, step forth, speak up
emerging from the
quick and core of our sleeping selves
where we dream
love's joyful edicts and decrees
far beyond the
perverse contradictions of odious day
where sundry
sullen selves assemble to be overthrown in quotidian toil.
A half-moon raises
its bright goblet high in my dream,
and tips its
silver toast to our love with its light,
above the waters
where I dive deep to retrieve a heart of coral,
whose bright
sprues and bifurcations radiate like arteries,
and surface to offer
aloft fists full of pearls to soothe the insult of the touch
of my straining
fingertips upon the star-strewn skin of night;
above the
mountains whose tests and trials I seek out,
in whose halls I
hew and heave agate, quartz and amethyst,
and the pits
where I strike citrine and cassiterite from the rock’s tight grip;
above the
torrents from whose gravel I pluck spinels, garnets and corundum;
and finally above
the high wide open empty deserts far away
whose brink the moon has swept dry with broad curtains of
pallor,
where I wander at
last, to retrieve peridot and diamond
from the distant
ruins of fallen stars, to form the pale gleaming limbs,
swift red blood,
stiff straight sinew and smooth marbled marrow
of the polished living
throne I make of myself for you, in my dream,
far from the
dreamless, broken, hollow, crowded coma-boned streets
and twisted
stricken straits of town.
Each kiss is a crown,
and makes me king
of the sunset, and you queen of the dawn,
and the hours in
your arms, in between these twin twilit stations of the night,
conceal a realm more
infinite than any day can reveal.
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