Our love has chosen its appropriate gesture
Which when viewed in the midst of all the gestures
It didn’t choose seems almost insignificant.

He’s inside, he must continue, at an infinite
rate, like a word
discovered with other words

Only this growing
indifferent to the glance and full
of what one has seen

“I would only like to repeat, you know, nothing else”
this afternoon
it’s impersonal, does not apply to anyone

even if the desire
is to believe in everything at once
uttering a quiet, intense thanks

it will comprehend everything
with the struggle in the room, the imploring
look and then:

A child pointed at the sky, made it his,
and then he points at the one he loves
and suddenly it’s his sky,

My mother said.
All surgeons want to do is surge.
And as one took the staples from her skull

Glass breaking and then laughter
under the open window—
a rabble of carousers

I’ll compare Jew-love to Roman light,
stone palazzi in travellers’ perspectives
obelisks and domes,