It is best we keep our distance. All there is between us are the rituals of the world. Let that space fill with white silence. Let gates of light open and everflow shine down. I read it will rise up in silence, too, the way a magnet lifts up spores of iron.
All longing has the same father.
His mouth is on hers now, kissing softly. The leaves rustle with the silk dusting of a skirt. I imagine so, for she also wants out of her body. Either way, we see the flame, we are the flame, and bells will never call the question back. Perhaps the supervision of birds or the jittering squirrels know better.