THE POET TO HIS BELOVED

Beloved, this night you have been crucified
on the two curving timbers of my kiss,
and your distress repeats how Jesus cried
and recalls a holy Friday sweeter than that kiss.

On this rare night your steady gaze has spied
Death singing in her bones from happiness
for this September night that's ratified
my second fall and all too human kiss.

Beloved, we will die together, close together;
this exalted bitterness will mellow as it dries
and Darkness turns our dead lips from one another.

Reproaches will no longer cloud your blessed eyes,
nor I again offend; instead we'll sleep together
in one single grave, like a little sister and brother.