The outcomes of our love lie in their bed,
sleep-tangled and yeast-warm from the guitar.
The stars overwhelm their dome, the mangroves
drip their branches down into roots and thus
over years walk the earth. You & I have walked as well,
more quickly—there is bread to buy, and rent.
Our hearts have few bruises but they are
deeply blue. Who knows the occasion for upending
the silence, for saying yes to all—yes
to the dried-up dreams in the bedroom corner,
the unborn dreams in the wood-thrush wing,
the sacred dreams of our love, whom God twice-
molded around bones in the manner of rivers?
Whatever the occasion, there was one,
and I, the lunatic, press it now and again
to your cheek, for you to carry in your dreams.