I have memorized and recited the abandoned
constellations of the universe, but I don’t have time
for their secrets tonight. I am making my isolation
small, folding it corner to corner until it is a paper
crane ready to mourn out the window.

My mouth begs the moon for a flood of pale honey
until the room is filled with the feathered melody
of a radiant stranger. Our kissing rhymes
with the forgotten names of God as our conspiring
tongues translate each vow of silence. Sometimes we miss
our mouths altogether and the air grows sweet
as a strawberry in a flute of champagne. I throw myself
into the night of his celestial hands, tracing
the psalm of his chest with my fingers until the sun pours
its useless perfume against all the grey angles of the world,
and my brain is all cloud pregnant with baptismal rain.