A needle in a Transylvanian haystack is ancient pretext, fashioned by lovers
who crawl inside a world they invent against others
Mom called me from the porch called from a night swarmed with hips
lips with hot breath of honeysuckle I swear only the first inch of love is sweet
Goodness comes to those who weight the heat of the moment
against the halo I find in a photo
the light’s hunger cradling her head.