On the ground
in its case – perhaps a coffin
a thing of beauty, shining
glassy body, cold
yet of course beautiful.
A thing made of wood,
metal, shell
and when lifted
I take it into my lap
as a bewildering celestial thing
slightly awkward – no, it is
perfect, and I
am awkward around it.
Now,
when you wrap your arms
into her wooden curves
she is no longer wooden.
A heart beats there.
There is breath.
Her neck adores your fingers
your body is not separate.
Together you create music,
make music, make love
and everything about it – her -
is alive.
a beating heart, I swear,
lies beneath the wood
when you play
October ‘05
