some place you in theology
but you belong in poetry
this night overflows history,
sticking to my fingers like
charoset,
clicking to my fingertips
in salt and butter
on the chicken
this whole half sleepy
day is like moror to me
and you were always
bitter to me
until the wine
and until the time
you made me remake
myself in narrow
places

this was hardly real to me,
does not taste to me,
these candles now burn for me,
put up this table that is soon gone,
give love to me and i will love you
too in the fruit and in the
roasted bone and over
salt water you will
go with me
out of these
narrow places