Juxtaposition

You bring an unexpected gladness into the room,
like a soft flicker of laughter in my chest,
bright birds in the joints of my fingers
that ache to hold your waist with a terrifying gentleness.

You seem filled with that fantastic light
I’m always seeing reflected, indirectly.
The world is full of these mirrors – look
at the night sky, look at the eyes of people pushing past.

It’s wonderful to touch your cheek
between day blue and night where we lie
for a moment in the miracle reds
with no idea where they’ve come from
or what thread has pulled together
the sweet juxtaposition of our faces on the pillow.

I am delighted by the tiny stars
and by imaging that great benevolent face
in the darkness from which they wink.
So far, I can get no closer to belief,
nor settle on a single form for meaning.

This sun you follow is no small thing.
Maybe some dawn I’ll ask you about the day,
the starless noon, directly filled with light.
I’d miss the glittering night, the multitudes, the mysteries,
just as I’ll miss you when I stay with the moon.

This feeling of your shoulder beneath my head
and your dark eyelashes, still and closed
above your pale cheeks, your gentle lips,
these small things are brilliant enough for me.