When I write here of desire This specific wanting; the how of now, I am not talking about the tightrope walk of lust, That pleasant lower belly pull; A trembling, tugging need. My wanting right now is for the soft warm crush Of your hand in mine as we stroll through autumn halls Bedecked with fallen leaves, the shedding trees An audience to the resplendence of our love Which deepens into the season of sleep With the same inevitability and beauty As the crispness of the morning And the birds that heed the calling Of promised warmth, in another land, Another space and time.