Silver Sliver

How is it that a night should be so loved? That is what I do not know:
how the yellow button should unbutton and disrobe,
how the bluish, whitish cold of that softer orb makes me sweat.
How should I understand when lovers stand, face to moonlit face,
wrapped up in each embrace of gilded stars, too far in holy space
to see a smile, a gleam, a glare of some taffied flare—strewn
like wisps of pines and oaken hair, all beneath your thousandth gift, the life
of no remorse, the orbit of a thousand dreams round its sacred, moonlit wife.