Pale gold of the walls, gold 
of the centers of daisies, yellow roses 
pressing from a clear bowl. All day 
we lay on the bed, my hand 
stroking the deep 
gold of your thighs and your back. 
We slept and woke 
entering the golden room together, 
lay down in it breathing 
quickly, then 
slowly again, 
caressing and dozing, your hand sleepily 
touching my hair now. 
 
We made in those days 
tiny identical rooms inside our bodies 
which the men who uncover our graves 
will find in a thousand years, 
shining and whole.