In the amber of a late October,
altered by illness
and a mauling from friends, we have
come again to London, and come
one to the other,
in truth, it seems
for the first time
in twenty-something years.

These are our days.

Above us, white lines from Heathrow
streak across the sky and a silver
airplane flashes in the tawny sun,
its underwing turned gold.

Ahead is Christmas. Outside
the bang-blast of fireworks, and
the tread of traffic dancing
to the drum of what must be done.

Not us, not now.

In here, our clothes removed, our skin
cells open, one to the other,
once a day, we practice: love.
And the stillness
of the season holds us, bathed
in something more than kindness.

It was you who led, as male
desire is wont to do, *****, unyielding,
it cut to our truth. And I who thought of practice:
that Buddhist word, that way
to be, to being
in the place that one is in.

So now we meet each evening to meld
the passing and the coming life
suspended
clothes off, upon a cushioned floor,
each time (it seems) anew,
each stroke the first, again,
in hours that know just what they hold

in this, our stilly autumn
in these, our golden days.