In each place they change what they hold
for each other as though they were
gates blown apart by wind,
yet a single gate waits beyond
the clinging in stillness,
the flame in a windless place is they
when beyond the turn
where thieves stand slapping
hands to back after the crime
they enter the house which is theirs and
look forward to the first oven full.

How in another place
they could cut through flesh
or marrow past rolling waters
or turn the salad to an image of pain,
take silently apart the love there
I don’t know,
all I can guess is
they saw the sun in a tree
and the cross in a field,
fashioned a riverside of electricity
more lightning
than engine they longed to drive.