A pan of gold

I feed the rosary of a narrow tail between finger and thumb, and we chat in bed: sweat rivering off us in chills as we gulp Diet Pepsi to replace what’s been lost; laugh about the nuisance we’ll be to my neighbours.

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You listen to motorbikes, whistling, outside; a thin, slatted light on the wall behind you, a look on your face no poem could improve. We talk as if all this were already yours – heads full of plans for a time when it will be.

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Do I really love you, you ask me again, looking for the one rock in a pan of gold, for whatever has more currency than ‘yes’. I kiss you, and lighting your eyes like votives, put devotion in the space fear leaves behind.