Like a balcony, seized from behind,
held up by gods no one trusts,

deity of pseudonym, of crush, ransom notes,
ropes, lies. Sometimes abandoned

but not unpromised among the terraces
of air. I waited there.

Years. And love at last did climb, O Romance,
the thorny orchard balustrades

even as I press now a silvering arm to railing,
Never mind the centuries.

Ours is an old tale. That first time,
flush from climbing, as I fawn-stared

from a chalice hold of hall-light, in chain glint
he unclipped from belt, watch, coin, keys,

taking time in an aerie of sheet and mirror,
flitch of mooned curtain panels swelling,

holding, blowing away the world,
that from our faces disbelief might fall.