We have to collect the graces.
My mind’s eye favours only one;
In her must I greet our faces.
What I lay down she replaces
Within her womb clothed with the son.
We have to collect the graces.
Follow as her finger traces
Me from debauch to devotion.
In her must I greet our faces.
Not in strides, but, in soft paces
Must I move—softly—Noise to None.
We have to collect the graces.
Within the moment—the stasis
Of quivering with elation
In her—must I greet our faces.
My anguish at once erases
When I know it has just begun.
We have to collect the graces.
In her must I greet our faces.