Your face is a rich fit
there's luminescence, somewhere
in your background, a ludicrous stammer
leading to the moon's vocality,
a quiet dismissal of modality
as the solution in which to be born
and rise, smiling, into our creation.
Frustrated you might be, by the day's
stars, so I'm familiar with rawness
as tense questions bloom, tabled
by inventive elves, nourished
through catch of gossamer, entire
as life is entire, yet barely drawn.
The lightest trust, a weakness
in my pelt of defences. Brute joy
staggers the outcrop of your sleep,
adrenalin jewelling what you keep
in savoured vigil, waiting games,
the sudden linking of our names.