Chopin is so wonderful you say. I didn’t know you even knew him. What else do you pretend not to know? Do you hide from me your love for God? You must, because I see it, quiet as lambs and asleep. But just now, this moment while you sleep, I lie here confessing it all while your hair falls across my old pillows, your breath steady against the sheet. Lone dancers, we drain out into little canals and rise up like tiny mountains. Rise to the air. Rise to stars. Where I confess that you are more beautiful than all God’s works.
And where us, clay figures, crushed up and tossed into each other’s dirt, are reborn and glassy eyed, smiled on, no longer pictures but mirrors.///