As beautiful as the irons in the smithy
in the old dark that was
your eyes
when they pursue, accuse and finally
move me
like a container that turns into a bird
that flies into a fire that is
hot
away
(and we anoint palmsoft
oil
onto the tonguetip)
As beautiful as air
in an old church that,
patient, looks upon the day-long
quiet guests year after year
come in
your eyes await
another fire