Devouring stars and licking the loins
of expiring galaxies, God is moving.
In these orgasmic vibrancies, God is singing and
an incalculable formation occurs.
My lover is very brave to be sitting still on the dead grass,
happily consumed by winter's stretched mouth. He thinks
he is a catalyst, recording the fallout of those doomed stars, but
he is more - brimming as he is with manic velocity, tied to the tunes
that reel through his head. Consideration is not his game, nor being possessed
by maudlin sentiment like a drunkard is bound to the heel of his anguish.
He wakes up and never eats until evening. There is love in his eyes
for everyone. I'm not saying this because he is mine or because
of what we have together -
afternoons of invigorating coalescence, conversing
like plant growth does with the sun.
What we have together is proof enough that God is and nothing is
by mistake or smothered with futility.
I have walked with him up and down the beltline, rubbed his toes
when they were tingling, ran the bath water for him, filling it with lavender oil
and sea salt, and all through this, he never stopped glowing.
Once babes and now teenagers, depend upon his care. Ceilings have cracked and
collapsed over him. It has not been easy waiting for that commission -
at the window, watching cars and cars and fire trucks go by, going into
other years, years that are not stars but swell like stars, combust
like stars, illuminating a voice,
his voice that cannot, has not