The song of songs which is Bufter’s and which is Sedgwick’s

100 TOM BOURGUIGNON THE SONG OF SONGS WHICH IS BUFTER’S AND WHICH IS SEDGWICK’S. kiss each other with the kisses of your mouths, you sons of bitches and let’s sing out for the love buried in the heart of labor, labor burned into the threads of love, let’s girl-kick it around the yard awhile, it may be a struggle but nothing can be blessed without having to wrestle an angel, nothing can or would seek out beauty if not in the majesty diddled up in the heart of love. Let’s wrestle and bless them and not just more life, not just a better life than they would’ve had but let them kiss each other until the oxygen drains from the room, kiss each other in the blue ridge of morning and walk among the magnolia and just hold hands out your door and be affectable, lovers, in a field of bluebells and rock aster and pangea grass and waver between ambergrown fields and shopping. Not everything is lost or changeable to our needs, let yourself await your lover’s approach and feel skin-electromagnitude, do not defend yourself in dailiness against it, when love comes in by the keyhole there is no dailiness, you cannot contain it by understanding, by planning, cannot protect yourself through caution or care, no, you have no body anymore that is not the world’s, no wit that is your own. Let vanish, it returns in a rush of you afterward. Love thins the surface like a porcelain dish yet love is the thing that sets you running among porcelain with a rockhammer, saying what can we possibly do wrong, not to Greek what’s already broken but to break what never ought to have calcified at all, it’s magic hour, let your four eyes shine, Bufter and Sedgwick, you’re gonna die but not while the moonweeds are creeping around the door, the moon too has never seen a shadow, may the two of you and your baby and all your six arms and thirty toes never see the shade, you don’t need the comforter tonight, there is still kindlove in a cloud whisper, in a smoke pad of answer: 101 May the whole world not be equal to the single day you fell in love, to the day Rowan was born, to today, don’t trade the memories away; may you be tiptoed among by the deer, heavenkissed as the fog unquilts, drenched, shadowsliding, the interim is yours so duplicate the laugh-easy fall of childhood, because it’s not just good but good, man, so you guys, you who lovers be, force of expression and the empress of humility—the interim is yours. This is not a blessing but a hope, a smoke of rope, a tuning fork. That your rafters and walls be cypress and cedar. ...