The Book of Sand

Between his beginning and my ending
we pressed you like a flower
in the pages of our Book of Sand.

Every time I open you
I never read a line
I've read before.

We closed and opened you again.
We never found you twice that night
as you rewrote yourself,

our flower forever opening.

We pressed and hid you in between
two leaves, to always find you
by opening any page.

And in the morning somewhere
a cockerel crowed, somewhere
in your eye our love was flaming

as he, sleeping saintly
beside you spread between us
beside me in the stillness,

sang you inside him.