The Visitation

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.