I go through lattice and melt (my lamp, my heart, my hand on the lock).
Like watercolour, like rain, you stain my cloak and skin (are tattoo).
Sneaky with your loving, you slip through like ink (when you knock, I knock)
and rewrite my code with your design and fingerprint.
Is this not how you move, love—like earthquake, like wind,
like fire when you have to?
So I, elemental, iron, small particle, too, am moved:
like silk, like paint, like words across the firmament,
entire and (entirely) undone by you.
Has no one felt such solace spoken gently, held of God,
under the wings of the everlasting dove?