Wondering where it came from, this obsession with threes and trinities,
And there you were,
My third deity,
My third sainted portrait,
The halo around your hips:
A new Orion’s Belt of dark blue current that spills from this night
This night that looks so much warmer than it feels
And feels so much closer than it looks
I remember that the grass was damp
And besides that I’d kicked off my borrowed shoes.
And there were hands on my waist,
Hands in my hair,
And the smell of summer idiocy on my fingers and lips.
This bright red coal in the night
Against you, dressed all in black.
I can still see my breath ringed out
Around the dome of the church
As I held my wasted money between two fingers
And wound two more through your belt loop
I remember the two of us laughing
At the emotional lives of our friends,
But even as I’m modestly filling out
My libertine’s title,
We have to admit that we have our own problems,
Even if we refuse to name them.
Sometimes I think all my problems are etymological.
And whatever there is in the attack,
I can’t help but miss it in the retreat;
Maybe it’s the way we refuse to let go.