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Bent towards several desires we began the simple courtship that would become our singular direction.

We must have a hand on the back of the other when the old chiming clock is adjusted just so to correct for its old works.
The key inserted to twist the gears and tension the lazy spring is a joint ordeal.
We share turns in this delicate pleasure.

Our need to own a house with steps is now exploited nightly. Every level lit with a candle scented, extinguished by snuffing either with brass horse head cups or fingertips wetted, dipped in the wine we would spill rather than drink.

At the bottom surrounded in the flow of the black satin pool you drape around your shoulders spilling across the floor to encourage my burrow, my low creep to you, to your key holes, as the gears power chimes,