Cherubic Hymn

You took seriously
my desire for being
serious and asked for
my hand, and pressed a
coiled spring into my palm.

“Hold this,” you said,
“and never pontificate yet
don’t you dare betray what
I have given you.”

I kept my hand
closed for a few years,
and buried it deep
within my pockets,
discovering for the first
time that pockets were
first sewn as an act of love,
or the necessity of being
unable to speak
of the coiled spring
in your hand.