Lost to night
“Till human voices wake us, and we drown.”
. (T.S. Eliot)
In love and worship the mundane
becomes possessed by symbol.
The fruits of wheat and vine
translate into the flesh and blood
of Saviours -
as this small bit of cloth you left
beside your plate,
stained with chicken juice
and traces of your lipstick,
now becomes a holy relic;
something held and touched by you,
by love: A shred of dream,
lost to the fabric of the night,
that I can see and smell and taste,
while I remember.