I shall not curse the star on which the sky
Leans resolutely: no, nor shall I bow
To any other star of blue or white
With love-penned constellations on its brow.
Celestial point, you, Love of stone and glass
To which I, planets, stars revolve in spires:
Light without which the sky unpins; a Mass
In which the Priest is burned with holy fire.
I, You, cannot forever intercept
Each bolt from an ungracious silver sky:
I know. We place our tangled silhouettes
In tandem, Love in spite of Stain and Sight.
Press palm to palm, and I will hold you till
The lights extinguish from your own black hill.
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