We walk the labyrinth, my love and I. Curving around each other, almost crossing, turning away, back, parallel, apart, one mysterious destination. Labyrinthian ways run through the bed where we touch tenderly and weep bitterly. They take us to the table at the center of the maze – extend? defend? bend … the rules? Befriend, yes, always and still. In our closet is a secret stole, fit for a priest, I bought for you in Guatemala, the land of labyrinthian tapestry. “No love can be made an excuse from another,” said Augustine. Mysteriously, I have come to love that old church, dusty, plush and set in its own labyrinthian ways. Yet passionately, in love, I bless you in ministry. And still circling we meet. You join me at mass, loving and chafing. “The peace of Christ.” And shyly, in public, we kiss.