The vision of you, at first, appears
almost mythical: the unearthly guise
of perfection, the cold glare of near-divinity.
Your dress floating, as if out of the sunset
a young cloud blushed, and bowed to kiss
your feet, and shroud your towering frame.

It's no less startling as you draw near,
when dusk is drawn in shadows rising
around us. Something of you seems infinite
and inhuman, an entity of secrets
sojourning here awhile. Thus
in my mouth, your soul remains unnamed,

but morning comes, finally, to tear
the dazzling veil away. (Blinking, I realize
your eyes are level with my chin.)
Now in dawn's greying, at last I meet
your tired and gentle face--and there it is.
The quiet revelation of sameness.
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