her hand will be moonlight
by him: quietly

have we become beautiful
sound? movement of dancers

and fangs of music— birds
stirring elsewhere,

abandoning trees, you
and trilling waywardly across sound, me

all is disquiet in days your lips
have sung honeyed softness

i could hear it like a flower
whose petals are blue

deepening in silence.
her smile will be harlequinade

by him and an adagio of scherzo
by her will make feet trample

the accident of water: pond-strove
of love's bend asks

have we become rivers
leaping in temporal splendors

as when it will never
give sleep its ****** whiteness again

i sing through morning's trek
and we, deeper then rain-washed stone,

will be all but moon and dark,
oh, you, me — unclosed without protest

pressed against the wall
of love's domain.