It sits on my bed stand, water emptying eternal
as the hands baring the cup which fills & refills
the bowl made by loving. Inside there are blue marbles
surrounding an island of three black stones which gurgle
& drip, bubble to stream, reflecting each tiny white light
of the stand, ceremonious.

How the anniversary of this finite triumph wells with resurgence
day to night, within the sound of our hearing, falling asleep
to these rivulets.

Let us tell time by them as if the moon’s shore-tracing face
made our windows a large clock.

Sunset to sunrise, our own lamps are the hands,
our own dreams running clean in the music of sterling.

Lover, that basin is my mouth, river-fed, by the endless
beginnings as the source keeps coming back, pulse by pulse.

Your heart is that pure, good & faithful as the first star
trust laced solvent, & if I should die drowned by the moments,
let this fountain be the last thing to still reach me
clear as the spirit of snow on the morning of Yuletide.