After we’d made love,
I tore through the tangle
We’d left at the foot
Of the bed to find
My two necklaces,
Hopelessly intertwined
As we had been—
The black dove of peace
From Chartres Cathedral,
The silver Celtic cross
I’d bought that summer
In Glastonbury—
At each other’s throats,
Thick cords binding
Ebon wings, shining arms,
Locked in an embrace
That could mean
Almost anything.
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