I dream of you. You come in
and out of the room, as you do
my life, laughing, hoops
of light around your wrists, waist, hips.
No one can pull my gaze like you can,
absorbed, innocent in your hard-won knowledge. Come —

no —

— you’ll come
when you and Creation are ready. I don’t use such a word
lightly, although I am learning to create
dancing with chaos, that counterbalance
of my soul, that language
I have never understood, that lover
whose face I have not seen though we have held each other
night after night. Come —

in the room those women are still
coming and going, talking of art
and artists while you and I, making eye contact now,
smirk, remembering
we are the artists, the ones
sleeping with chaos and slipping
under their understanding. If only they knew
who was in the room with them! It’s better
they don’t know, I tell you
with my gaze, no longer smirking, how you are a god to me, how
I will be a god to you, how
I would strip away all of Creation to show you
that we
are the creation
we’ve been creating so very long.
Come —

Come —