The Secret

Sometimes my secret and I go
hand in hand together
out into the street and smile
at the averted eyes and curious wrinkles
passing by,
but mostly it’s just the two of us together,
very close like
a table and the vase standing on it or
a window and its faithful shade,
very close like
a book and the hand that holds it open,
that’s how close we are,
with a finger slipped between the pages
while the book is spread wide open
by a hand glued firmly to the spine,
that’s how close we are,
I and my big secret,
when we hold hands in public
as if in each other
we each possessed the life
promised to us by a song
on a soft radio from the neighbor’s
backyard at blossom time.