first | in the thirst of
it | last in turn of
we face | as the action
to | what wind comes
across our cheeks | to
tell us | what we want
to be | or else
what we | are as we
the tendency | is
toward movement | breath
the action | of the body
against the | accumulated mass
we call | “reality”
but entrance into | does
not require | exit | so
we stay | as one | as
two as one | or more
since our sense | of our
selves is of | magnitudes
not minitudes | the plurality
of selves | that make us
one | you can recall
the event | of a night
a song | we did not sing
a sound | we heard inside
but surrounded | by
as if | the room was the
cocoon that held | us
in anticipation | of being
whatever we | as one
and two | coupled were
or were to | be
I see | in your eyes
the scent | of your
skin | my touch of
your hair | resembling
silk | but softer to the
touch | finger on
skin of | breath on nape
of word | in ear
my voice inside | your
heart | the reverberation
of silence | as a revelation
the purpose | of pulse
erected to | tell you how
you mean | to me
what is the light | at sunrise
but my kiss? | what is
slumber but | my wait
until I see you? | I
remember the first | time
I left | the breath of you
in my ear | so I would
not breathe it | away
time extends | past
the purpose of | this small
present | or the present
is always | you awake
and looking | with
your green | green eyes
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