Ave Maria
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The blizzard drove them home. (I love to hear the voices merge—)
Now the thirteenth century, now the choir sang.

If he kissed her
without intent,

without touching,
believe it, they sang in Latin.

Who needs the tattered covenant this body is?
The car glides like an egg through the centuries falling around it,

but the voices merge, singing.
It’s 1297. Stone gates,

cobblestone. Where shall we lay our weary heads
if the story holds them together like peas in a pod,

like a hand in a glove: will they ever stop singing,
is there world without end?

Salt streaks the car and a mule deer waits for the lights
to stop blinding. (It’s not that I want to leave—)

But what they are singing is not about love.
It’s about wanting the story, driving all night

and waiting for someone
to say, that man

or, this woman
is mine.