You Will Let Go

You could just hand me

my compass, this roof-iced,

house-empty day.

You could ignore unmeasured clouds

that breathe such lifeless latitudes,
such godforsaken platitudes.

We read the Bible

your father gave you

twenty years ago.

We read all the books

prophets and apostles never wrote,

all the stories they said

they said.

We make love to the Old Testament,

ravish the words of David’s Psalms of Praises,

kiss-lick his gut-punch love songs.

Way beyond these clouds,
stars are blue frost,
feather-thin snowflakes.

The stars ignore the day.

This is a story
that day won’t give morning
any time soon,

is what you want
to but never will
say.

This is a story that day tells.

Your snow-touched thoughts

and three spring-pressed Maple leaves

mark the Song of Songs for me.