Fire between the living and the bed rooms,
yet we are not metal. Love is metal if
it embraces time. Our love never owned
your lips, your eyebrows, your blue eyes, your skin,
white as purity, hair red as the sweatof sex.
Soul is a knot of atoms
in the web of the universe that I,
a second knot, love.
Love builds the fire in the fireplace; it pours
the red wine into your glass, the white wine
into my glass. Love embraces. Your shape
fits my shape, and warms my flesh with your flesh.
We are human because we have the names
of humans truly.
The rest is physics.
Fire between the living and the bed rooms.
We rush the mattress. Subatomic, I
want only the tube of you, the sliding
song, and the vagueness of our ecstasy.
Which is not quantum, but old fashioned skein.