la quinta blessing

you are between pages,
crisp, anonymous sheets
without stain or imprint,
hotel-clean, as if no word,
no gesture, had ever come
before you.

in this room, amongst the pillows
and the pools of tungsten light,
you can more clearly smell the weight
of what you bring in with you.

whatever you eat there,
the fruits appearing at the door as if
by Providence, the Garden
is hushed -- sin falls like an apple,
a drop of wine on the tongue;
the earth rebounds a single drum
beat, the heel of your hand
on the mattress.

you are between blank pages
in a book, a calendar of days erased.
ease your hands into the black
depths of your luggage, and bring forth
whatever you thought you'd need:

your pride, your hopes, your shame;
pictures of your kids, clean socks,
shaving kit, memories of other rooms.

write into these leaves
your uncertainty.
let your love-making pass unjudged.
sleep deeply,
as if you had invented
the method.