Moonlight Sonata

Having no place to remain, we place ourselves
within each other, in hopes to lengthen the brief moment
of translation when we understood the language,
conversed freely in joy.

Our hearts transcribe each other; signals of salutations,
the form of a dance we so roundly turn, its taffeta
and gloves, it's polish and cologne; it's ragtime and gin
reserved for some other region, not the heart
whose language is still pure.

It is a lie to think of a blackened heart, a phrase we use to
describe something else entirely, something lost, not found,
something out of order, deprived of grace; depraved, for
depravity is not of the heart. No, if we knew the heart,
we'd understand the shining city on the hill.

Because it is not of the moonlight's glow across the dance floor
that we speak, rather it is she who speaks of us, as if we were her all,
as if we were suns upon which her face depended for her features,
else how could she be known?

There is no independent gaze, only the reflection of a singular
intent, as though angels in their dissipation needed some air to travel through
to practice their appearances. Soft blades bend in breeze, hills of sand
grow into mountain ranges. Mountains carve into shapes that are erased.

God speaks with the stuff of numbers that combine in infinite formulae,
a pure language of gesture, best described by lovers.
Everything that gives light is dependent on that which makes it shine.