You Little Stack of True

All your darkened stairways,
unused rooms –
your cellars, attics,
boarded-up compartments,
cubicles piled high with boxes,
dusty, heavy, worn –
but not forlorn

my dear
when we effect our queer
sweet little trysts here –
riffling through cobwebs
delicate as lace –
exactly where you’d most forgotten
you had space –

awaiting and receiving grace.
Let’s come back
every early morning,
do it like two pornographic
pedagogues rewriting decalogues
so that they tell the truth
for once: be the unknown poem

in the unknown book
for which the hungry
sensually-starving scholar hunts –
ha! – but only I
have got the right
detecting eye
for you, you little stack of true.



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