Strange to be remembering how
—was it twenty-odd years ago?—
you drew back from one of our kisses,
your head turning half away so that
I saw in our bedroom’s half-light
your lovely profile and eye staring
out toward and into a passing thought.
Then all of half your smile was for me,
and you put your mouth to mine again
with overwhelmed gentleness.
We both were overwhelmed and pulled under.

Strange suddenly to remember this
after so many, many kisses,
after such years of rupturing.
Caught in our archaic caresses
(you know, that same old, old thing):
a space of five seconds of fresh time,
when nothing was happening
and nothing was happening yet.
And I now its voluptuary.