But what do we know,
my love, of longing,
of unrequited heat
felt through an open robe
staring into each other’s bosom
of flesh and bone
aflame with resurrection's blood─
light shining not thru but around, 
framing the darkness between─

     alas untouched
     is the floor beneath our feet.
 
Will we measure time left to us
as the cock crows?
Such picaresque saints
we are: lowly born
in an age of innocence 
no more.  I remember
falling in love with you,
my angel, my teacher,
as inconveniently as love comes
to us ‘fast nags of the cloth.’
 
But now they have pierced our pericardium 
protecting the pungent oil.
Can you feel strength draining
from our roots, robbed
of virtue?  Is it not the lofty
branches, dearest, looking down
upon us, their choking gaze
lingering as the smell of manure
or as the taste of regret?
Oh, my love, do not despair!
there is hope if someone
(if someone like you)
still dungs the dying.

     O deseret, our sweet olea europaea,
     your flowering ovaries 
     blackened against the bark, 
     your trunk a tangle of braided veins 
     holding up a heavy crown . . . 
     the whole head is sick. 

Take my hand, love of my heart, 
let us create something worthy
as if we had the scepter
of Charlemagne, imagine,
or the courage of William who conquered
Harold under the comet,
or the faith of Joan speaking to
Michael in the pasture
wearing men's clothes,
or the plucky nerve of Luther
standing against the Cathedra Petri,
or given our sacred honor
sealing our names to liberty
on the banks of the Thames
before King John─
     or burned in the noonday sun
     beside Joseph as he prophesied
     a future where men would govern
     themselves and have no law but the light
     of Christ to lead them─
 
now history watches
what we do, armed with love alone
as others seek to steal our freedom in Christ
hanging by a thin thread.
​
We have learned by sad experience, my love,
great men are not always wise
and foxes walk upon the desolate mountain.

Please, beloved, choose.