Or splendor,
The way morning weaves
Its way through the curtains

The squint of their partings
Each crease, each gap
Rubbing elbows

The way a ballad, nibbles
The earlobe, wet and luscious
Dripping on the collarbone

Beyond the skin and foam
of body, an anonymous garden
And the fountain we drink from

When we are wordless and churning
When we are anybody
On the thresholds of

—love