The Ecstacy

He is square in his suit again, the same man

in the same package, striding into the present,

meaning whatever a man can mean, a billion

years of male shoulders, male hair, male eyes,

shaking all that off, being only himself,

secure in the tight shell of his otherness,

glinting outwards and inwards,

his hand smooth as a long hill, his kindness

pocketed everywhere, let loose like singing coins,

his love, such as I know it, there in every breath,

light as a word on his lips, heavy as his body

on mine, love, about the size and shape of a man,

an embrace like the potter's hands around

the spinning clay, spinning and spinning.