A small light through the curtains finds us here.
A time locked out of time by our intent;
Beside our bouts with vanity, and fear,
And energetic dealings – some misspent —
We stop within the cycle of the par
To reach, express, console, condole, allow –
The things that never were, but always are;
The ever-present “then” that’s never “now” —
It’s strange: the words we think but hesitate
To say, as though they make us, somehow, less;
The secret weddings we officiate,
The burning longings we will not confess —
Except, my love, in moments, just like these:
When love puts all our wastrel thoughts at ease
