You find comfort in the ways he
singsongs to you like a prayer made of silk,
and the way he pulls the roots and strings of
strains in the heavy-breathed winters you've
woken up to, and how you can watch
the ache—and so visibly so,
like porcelain sold
to someone who could match the beauty of all hearts
of kind men gone cold—just stepping onto
a translucent stairway, like semiquavers
dancing, in the surging waves
of atomic golds.