Is it wisdom, holding you in such
reverence, a costly liverage, salute
a million replications of a kiss
missed through a pull of honour
and eyes that blazed in numbness
as I touch you for another
and another spark, biting fear
on the sharp edge, exposure
never seemed easy as words
pooled into poisonous valour
or a nighted hatch, your length
a house of wood, slip courage
into my hands, at last, at all.
We never know the future,
obscure as other people, darker
than an initiation, replete
with echoes prophesying
tenderness, or trouble, pointing us
at an altarpiece, painted deep
in hesitancy and the need to leap.