In the small room
with the green couch and broken
record player; only a sliver of moon
and street light shines from the space
between the worn drapes. Outside,
noise of children in the park,
and the shallow river beyond.
On your hands and knees, and smiling
you enter; you move toward me
slow. Your black body-stalking
and all of you
visible only an inch at a time
as you pass through the thin light.
That light over every long moment of your skin.
I was in the brambles,
as I said I would be
when your plane rose
out of the sky.
I did not look up,
but kept staring
at the blackberries
withering on the branch.
Once, the color, so deep
on your tongue.
They do not even stain
the hand.
They are arid.
They are August.
I knew two
other things, but as it happened, they were wrong.
--William Matthews
Of last things, there is this love.
--Anne Cipri
So big, this
night, it stomps
light against cloud,
the loud air
against our hands.
How we understand ourselves,
define ourselves
against so much
moving--think of it.
We bounce our dreams
against what may be
stars. All
I know
for sure-
that we are- here;
that we lie
together at this center;
that we are warm
bodies,
warm blood
not far away
from dawn.
