Inklings

Sometimes when we make love near the window
I can almost feel them waiting in the corners,
whispering in dusty spaces above the wardrobe,
their breath in drifts of light across the glaucous room,
and sometimes I glimpse filaments brushing against the panes,
delicate as silk, sense shifts in matter, stirrings, 
and then it doesn't take much to bring them into our bed, 
to call them down, the two of us moving together, 
moulding them out of our hearts like clay 
with the mortar and pestle of our bodies,
the cup and planes of our hips,
and thighbones working like engines all greased with blood and longing, 
for soon we are reaching towards shining crowns, 
our fingers straining to touch them, 
and breathing out in one long rush into their starry lungs, 
and sometimes afterwards if we are still they might come into focus, 
step forward into the light, already entirely themselves.