Quiet Things

I sway in a pale blue breeze of evening light
A stirring constellation of leaves
formed in the stillness that bottoms your cup.

I am father to the spaces between finely weaving words
my offering of letters from the hollow circus
of my battered, aching chest.

A silver service of distracted adulation,
strewn sweetly across your little white toes;
the ink with which I will trace our steps

Back to the preface, the one exquisite moment
when our eyes met one dreaming night
with streetlamp chaperons

and every part, ev-ery-thing hums
well-greased gears grind and spin
as we heaved, a drag of old burdens

we two, a hot engine of caresses whose roar,
crescendoed like amorous handprints
against the morning glass

the hot tick
     click
              tick
of quiet things,
dreaming. . .
of wings.