Rapture

I do believe—

not what the mirrors have named us,

your hand over the statue’s heart

where the marble is stained.

Not the breath that first holds you

deep under water, then pulls you up—

like a plane’s sudden clearing, a flower

given no name. Closer to rapture,

closer to love, lover,

look for me there.

Devotion

In September he rides the late train

from New York to see him.

The sky holds the light an extra hour

like gold paint holds the Madonna

in old Russian icons. Across 

the bridge, the disappearing boats

are lifted by the current—

as is everyone who sees them.

For the first time he feels

they may not need the moon.

Everything he wants to say to him

is already written—and irony

vanishes when he presses his face

against the cold window.

When they meet at the station,

like in a novel, which one of them

waits for the other to touch him?

And who begins the kiss, then turns

away, as if leaving?