To wonder if you, alone in your house,
consider the universe as your world
or theirs,
to picture
you
laying on your bed, head tilted upwards,
contemplating the stars beyond the swirls of plaster,
to think of you like this
is spiritual.

To see you walking in my direction
while smiling,
alone and within your
own mind, over a memory,
or
sudden whimsy
is holy.

To have and to hold
the silky jawbone
of a delicate face
with an indelicate voice
and to kiss that tender mouth
would be redemption.

To speak to you
in the tongues of touch,
the colloquial hand-holding,
sweet kissing language of the land,
would be religion.