Poem 119: Moving Pattern

there is a quietness about this love

centred in a perfected shell

a still point in the moving pattern

that waits frozen stemmed

in the waving dream

for the still part of me

still holding in my deepest stone

a pebble of smooth and silent blue

that drops always, falling round

as the wheel of finding

the part of us that love provides

in daring measure

with all the laden changes

of our current theft

which is above all things

charged with a perfect death

as the sweet gift of killing

this moment for the next

already apprenticed tied

and pierced on the still point

of this our one and only moving pattern.