Soon, we will speak,
than the wide, dark, sun-edged wings of antiopas[i]
shift their willow catkins,
(which is not at all),
than the movement of the heavy curtains,
not stirred by your sleeping child's breath,
than my pen touches
with anticipated words
For twenty-three hours
our lives empty
of each other
and then with these words
we try to pour
back what was lost.
This is the day I saw foam flower
blooming on the hummocks
in the seven-acre swamp. Leaves opened,
chartreuse and new. The patter of raindrops
was steady, falling into my hair, over
my arms, filling my shoes.
Tonight I will tell you of fields
puddled with rain, how the trees
moved through the pools
as if marching underwater,
restless, trembling with every step.
And you will tell me something,
something I have missed,
and didn't share with you,
something I will have to imagine
We will say Hug
but our bodies won't touch
and we will say kiss
but our lips won't meet.
Then, all night long,
we will walk, and keep walking,
through stars, turning,
one step, one night closer
to each other, as the moon,
waxing and waning at our windows,
our separate beds.
[i] Antiopa is the species name of Morning Cloak (Mourning Cloak)