making the connection between what i feel
and the range of possible feelings
has never been easy--take your leaving
just now, after i'd opened the door to you, opening
so hard into the mattress soon after, a moment of exquisite
unguardedness,
so grateful, i guess is an appropriate word, for your hands,
your face.
tender slow touches after that, little gray wavelets
like those to which baudelaire invited
his sister-lover--
non-utilitarian.
three hours into our rest
every muscle longing
to change position
worrying--worrying
that turning away from you
will make you feel uncared for
and after you leave
harrying across the floor
trying to shake it out at the hands,
the fact that you came,
that i came, and that now
everything in this place
smells different, sounds different,
has been seen--too impossibly rich
refulgence
leaving a lingering damp.
what do i call this? gratitude?
for the pale gold of your view,
upon my world, wreathed with mist,
its eddying currents, its finger-islands,
the ships that linger to make your slightest wish--
for the fact
that your gaze
has been so good
to land upon me
in the altogether sweet vicinity
of this time--
what
do i call it?
here, there is naught but order and beauty
luxurious, calm, voluptuously enveloping
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