We begin every night ignorant,
two xenophobes called in from exile,
pleased to the point of buoyant.
Fevergiving we’ll name our glad child.
By dawn, a change is perceptible.
Both of us—our faces and four ears smeared
with honey, mouths open, capable
as hive—one, two, duo mutineers
ready to walk the circular planks.
Against the air is the way we lean.
—For the love we do there’s not much thanks,
for the love we do improves all dreams.