Among Lovers

I’m without reason, my love: chasing and ever returning to

self. You stand so crooked, my heart, where lovers fawn. I

remember autumn so cold, and winter so warm. We’d

argue, lie in passing, and share something secret and painful.

But ever a tug your soul; and ever a love my mind; where

only concrete petals absorbed blue rain. So mystic our moon:

fleeing both earth and space; and your arms, reaching for

another—ever content and lonely—and free of guilt. I knew

of wages, to gamble my life, where dignity spoke: “I’m

several women.” I stared and faintly asked: Unto what

degree; and how many levels? You nudged a wrist, pulled a

finger, and asked: “Does it matter?” Our moments so brief;

plus, forever, so insufficient; and never our love the measure

of songbirds; but ever our measure of woe, love and fear.