My love is one and only, without peer,

        lovely above all kingdom's lovely men.

In my sky of light or dark,

        be quick to see the

silver sliver of the nightfall star

        in his stroll through heavens;

for in only the flutter of a week he receedes,

        too humble to parade the whole of the month.

Do not mistake his slipping for shyness,

        he will catch your alacritous gaze

and return it in a sterling smile

        (so pure he catches your heart too)

embedded in a field of freckled cheeks

        from eras of asteoid-bathing in the sun.

Sweet is the beard, half dark half white,

        that hangs from his pointed chin,

dropping to firm pecs in the flexing light,

        expanding contracting in lunar breaths.

And toned are those arms, branded in filigree,

        that lift the curtain of otherwise darkest nights

to many times brighten my shadowed lands

        with the mirror of life's spirit.

And (ah) how the curve in his waning figure deepens,

        how the pit in his waxing figure fills,

(enough to make a man's head spin like an owl

        when it spots a mouse in his moonlight.)

The whole of the world stays silent

        when captured in his midnight song,

lyrics so reflective they wake the good

        left inside you.

His passion will not burn

        your sun-kissed cheek

(those lips so gentle

        they can pillow one to sleep.)

(He who could be held by that body tight

        would know at last

                peace of sleep —

Best of the righteous,

                last amiong lovers.)

Look you, all men, at that luminous lift,

                like Our Lord of Love,

                        without peer.