You ask: All of this jargon! Whatever could it mean? I shrug my shoulders. You give it even greater mystery, I say. I should never care to know what any of it means as long as you read it to me. You make it sound so very sincere. I trust it to mean whatever you say it does.

You take a long drink of your coffee. It is tepid and frothy - easy to drink quickly. When you are finished, you give a sigh of satisfaction, reach for the hair at the rear of my head and rub it absent-mindedly.

You know, you say after looking at your empty cup for a moment, there are many people who claim that they cannot start their day without their caffeine hit.

This is true, I say. I have heard it said.

Well, you say, putting your cup on the table before taking my face between your hands, I cannot start my day without you. In fact, if you were not in the beginning of my day, husband-man, I should be lost.

After holding onto your coffee cup for so long, your hands are extra warm on my cheeks.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Look, you say. An egg contains the whole of creation. When you crack open an egg, you crack open a universe.

I say: I am not so sure about that.

While I toast bread and brew coffee, you poach eggs, humming, and rubbing your backside against mine. It feels good, and is one of the reasons why I don't want a bigger kitchen just yet.

When we are sitting at the table with our breakfast served, you cut off some poached egg on toast, place it on a fork, and ask me to open my mouth.

The yolk is runny and warm, and you chase a dribble of it away from my chin with your tongue, and kiss me. The taste of you in my breakfast is enormous, and I smile.

Now, I say, if you want to crack open a universe, that's the best place to start.

TO BE CONTINUED...

You adjust your position on the step, and our little fingers touch - the faintest of touches. In such moments it is as though our whole bodies collide.

What, you ask, is the moon made of?

I am not wise, I say, and I believe that you may find the correct answer in many books in many libraries of many men wiser than I.

Your head leans into my shoulder and you whisper: I am not concerned with the answers of many wise men. I only wish to know: what do you think the moon is made of?

I pause. I am always stunned by the attention in your voice. I must not search for the correct answer, but for the answer that pays the highest tribute to your wonder.

For anything to keep an orbit with as much faith as the moon has, I venture, it can only be made of devotion.

TO BE CONTINUED...

I would rather remain in the disaster area - to transform it into a site of profound archaeology - to piece together a logical culture of collapse from the ruins. To sift and scrape; to brush away the detritus of failure from the shards, bones, and artefacts of togetherness: to bring forth a revelation from the body of morass.

Time Is An Iron Distance - Dante In Exile

She must be as the crossing of a great desert: the constant irritation of a prolonged thirst. A coil of razor wire in the throat; the barbed question one is cursed to travel with, unanswered.

Time is an iron distance. Such is the fate of exiles.

The Sleep Of Great Love

As evening falls on this day, and each beyond it, you are loved by many who are not present. In sleep you are surrounded, and will never sleep apart from this great love. The peace that falls upon you will be the peace of great love. As you awake to many new dawns, so too will the courage of great love go with you. Your heart of great love will illuminate the world.

Today we celebrate the great romance of your life, sweet child.