A small bed in a small room, the bright and harsh August sun
spilling in through the thick cream curtains over the window.
It hot, sweltering in this room, but we clutch each other close,
still under a thin blanket, our prayers made in our silence, dreams.
A pocket universe, a hiding place with a ring of salt around it,
keeping our demons out for the moment of our still embrace,
an angel taking mercy on us puts down his flaming sword
and we rest in the quiet and the honey shadowed afternoon.
I kiss your head, and you turn to kiss my lips, brush my cheek
and then we make love, in the heat and the shadows, and are one
flesh and one spirit and one dream, and are like angels, or Adam and Eve,
when God was everywhere before their eyes, and no demons could corrupt.
And as night falls, we dress in loose, large shirts and pajama bottoms
and make a simple meal to share, and then sit on the front porch,
the plain so wide open and nothing hiding the Milky Way, God’s eye,
from us as the night falls, and the most sacred procession begins.