The Hideaway

There is the dark oubliette, the convent of secrets
where no one would suspect the wind of a candle,
or arms that cradle.

In the woods there is a quarry of not mineral or gold,
but a deep burrow of heart and warmth,
where two lovers entwine, evaporating from an earth,
and recede in the depths of each other,
they sip from shared chalice, the sacred drink of life,
and looking into themselves, in eyes, they lay into the night,
the sound of a clarinet,
and the summer is a blanket, the kiss is a goodnight,
and a sleep is now perfected.