You, for whom I write this poem again
And again and again, do you still
Feel the warm pendulum of my tongue
Marking the passages of the moon
Across a litter of galaxies
In their slow pin-wheeling explosions
Through the deep millennia of night?
Do you see me as I see you still,
Our upper lips glistening with sweat,
Our bodies tracing short bright arcs
Through the few moments of abandon
We stole once before you rose, alone,
And walked home in the dawn? That morning,
Did the wind taste of clover and salt?