Little tie-dyed bodies, each a different splash of luck.
I could set the knobs of your fingers
to poetry, but beauty
demands no adoration.

So this, my friend, is no song.
The music of skylarks and earthworms
is not mine, but I’d like to think
that I’ve heard a recording of
the choir of angels. Right there above my lamp, only
a lifetime of hard work away.
I studied my own iconography, dreamed of
resounding order, perfect columns.

You ministered into my ribcage a heresy.
You broke at all the wrong times and places, didn’t believe,
one kick at my altar and vanity fell out like cotton from seams.
You pushed my ear against the abyss, and among the
beautiful dissonance
I could only hear one line:

The golden key is named desire.

This miracle called life is not a pilgrimage.
Stories have lines because we impose direction: otherwise,
it’s all, objectively,
a wild chase.

I got my feathers damp. I have you. All is well.