Two lovers rest together, melding skin
to skin, a sultry afternoon, and as we blink
they blink — we know each other
by our luminous sublimity.
Hovering angels speak through us
and that’s not all, they speak and then
they listen too as we smilingly reply —
we smile, nothing is said, exquisitely.
The lovers nod, they nudge each other,
it’s a God-lit swoon-time, it always is —
somehow we know that in the same way
lovers know, the way attending angels know.
We are that knowledge that cannot be spoken,
cannot be known, so we speak in tongues of lovers,
of angels, of hosts of divine light, in skin languages
with one derivation, one clear unbroken stream
of simple silent syllables, a sacred singing
prayer with no beginning or end.
We are this prayer of ourselves, a rare music
of remembering and forgetting, before lovers,
before angels, before any music came spinning,
spiraling out of that same incomprehensible
emptiness which birthed all life, all angelic
heart beats, all breathing, singing souls.