moving in :: frank ormsby
The first act of love in a new house
is not private. Loving each other
we are half-aware of door and mirror.
Our ecstasy includes the bedside chair,
the air from the landing.
Street-lamp and elm utter leaves on walls
as in no room ever. Theirs is the tongue
our tongues join in translating. Their message
is clear: tonight you cannot ignore
the world at the window.
So we love in the knowledge of a city
at a different angle. And sharing
our bed with furniture and tree we claim
their perspective, merging our lives here
in their established frame.