What is it that makes the human face, bit of secret, lighted flesh, open up the earth? — Galway Kinnell I have seen your face before not like now, but plain and lacking some dimension. I didn’t struggle then, your eyes not open, your face not a mirror resolving small secrets. Now you are a dream inside a storm. Your face has gravity, an undertow aimed and reaching in me. You tempt me like the rocky edge of cliffs. I watch your face define a word lacking pronunciation, the language impossible to fling through speech. I feel a fine wind filling my skin like sails. I free-fall through your eyes and enter a dark crevice in the earth; the cool walls spill into night sky pricked with stars. No one speaks here. There is no need for sound. All we have are eyes and stars, bright words night brings storming beneath our skin. All I have to give you is my only truth. It is free and requires no belief: I live in the earth and crawl through thickets of roots on cold rock. I look for dampness or air in a movement through caves. Your face, a burning star, opens up the earth and warms my skin. The word for this is love.