To say to you our union's hue
is all I wish to do,
so let's lie down
our fate unfound
and let the colors choose.

There's green beneath
these waves of sleep;
the sheets we speak between
keep words of gold
within their folds
no lip nor tongue nor cheek can hold.

The dreams that bring the warmth of oneness
keep the cold at bay
and makes of us a mote of dust
on sunlight swept away.

As we trade our blues and greys
for the white of water, red of rocks,
the pink of sparks they spray
stop like stars in space and stay.

In this way love is made.

Be not my altarpiece.

You are no ritual implement
with which I commit
religion.

You are given
(of and by yourself)
to
(no cherub or elf but)
a being
(human)
this feeling
(this numen)

Free as any altarpiece
found alone on seascape vistas
far away from
the clamor of symbols

Be not my leader nor acolyte,
we've too many paces to walk tonight,
for you not to be by my side.

I'll settle for no projection.
No, I'll settle not at all;
for the fall is slow,
and I'm caught like
so many motes,
so much dust
suspended in your transparency
Dancing.

Be not my altarpiece.

You breathe in your sleep
too sweetly
to be anything other than
this moment
(as it repeats me)